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This was Chicago—life! 


[ Page 15 ] 








J 

The Green scarf 

A business romance having to do with a man 
who is determined to win success without 
the help of wealth or family prestige 



CHICAGO 

A. C. McCLURG & CO, 

1924 

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Copyright 

A. C. McClurg & Co. 
1924 


Published February, 1924 


Copyrighted in Great Britain 


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Printed in the United States of America 


M. A. DONOHUE 81 CO., PRINTERS AND BINDERS, CHICAGO 


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C1A778254 £/ 






Dedicated to 

Charles Agnew MacLean 






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THE GREEN SCARF 











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The Green Scarf 


CHAPTER I 

I T WAS after four o’clock in the morning. The 
last function of commencement was over. 
Diplomas had been issued, and the class of 1914 
was among the “ grads.” In the old vine-clad hall 
on College Street the Keys crowd were holding 
their last meeting. They sprawled about, collars 
discarded, shirts open at the throat, staring glumly 
into space. The atmosphere was vaguely tearful. 

Pete Culver roused himself with a yawn. “ Well, 
I s’pose triennial will see us cornin’ back in our 
private cars,” he suggested. 

“All but Cass,” growled Big Bill Burton. “ Good 
Lord, Tommy, what an ass you are! If my dad 
could ease me into a nice soft job, you can bet I 
wouldn’t hesitate.” 

The others echoed agreement. All except “ Pop” 
Farr — chronic in dissent. “ You don’t understand 
Tom,” he drawled, rolling his eyes behind their big 
horn spectacles. “You’re not educated enough to 
understand him. The trouble with you fellows is 
you think you’re all through with life. Tom knows 
he’s not. He hasn’t got his green scarf yet.” 


1 


2 


THE GREEN SCARF 


“What d’ye mean, green scarf?” demanded 
“Egghead” Noyes. 

Farr’s eyes twinkled behind the thick lenses. 
Nothing pleased him like an opportunity to dis¬ 
play erudition. “True believers, otherwise Moham¬ 
medans, are privileged to wear a green scarf on 
completion of a pilgrimage to Mecca,” he explained. 

“And what’s that stuff got to do with us and 
Tommy? ” 

“ Simply that you think your precious sheepskin’s 
a reg’lar whopper of a green scarf and Tom doesn’t. 
You fellows may come back to reunion in private 
cars, but Tom wants to come back in something 
better.” With a wave of the hand, expressive of 
finality, Pop busied himself opening a fresh bottle 
of beer. He felt that he had spoken wise words. 

Their object, Tommy—from now on Thomas 
Elgin Cass, second — sat, thoughtfully silent, his 
hands clasped over his knees. 

He wasn’t sure that he understood Pop’s talk 
about the green scarf; Pop was always getting off 
things that sounded better than they were. Still, 
that green-scarf stuff was interesting, even a lit¬ 
tle ominous perhaps. There were perils, doubtless, 
on the road to Mecca. 

With a sigh, he gazed around the room, scene 
of so many happy hours. It was all over now. One 
must —what had prexy said? — “put aside child- 



THE GREEN SCARF 


3 


ish things.” He was a man now. On the morrow 
— no, by Jiminy, this very day — he must fare 
forth to struggle with the world. 

An observer with just a little imagination would 
have found validity in the figure. There was a sin¬ 
gular paladin quality about the lad, a certain knight¬ 
liness in the clear candor of his blue eyes, the mild 
resoluteness of his lips, the thrust of his head, oddly 
suggestive of a gaze that saw above the heads of 
other men. 

Tommy was not in the least conscious of any 
elevation. That was his charm. He was no more 
aware of his ideals than of his lungs. He merely 
used them without speculation upon their quality. 
He found them adequate. Life to him was not 
complex. One hesitated occasionally, to be sure, 
questioning right and wrong; there were dubious 
gray borderlands where one found bewilderment, 
sometimes even a little pain. But there were al¬ 
ways bridges. 

Pop Farr, who read Kant rather keenly for his 
years, puzzled Tommy by calling him a footnote to 
the categorical imperative. Tommy merely shied 
a book, and went on living. To be square- and 
honest and clean, to keep one’s body like a fine 
weapon, above all, to put oneself in the other fel¬ 
low’s shoes, these were imperatives enough. And 
behind this instinct to be decent was a cold ob- 



4 


THE GREEN SCARF 


stinacy, a kind of steel core in a shaft of alabaster. 

There was no self-awareness about Tommy. It 
was characteristic that he should be amazed when 
his class voted him “most to be respected.” He 
was scarcely conscious of the exquisite muscularity 
that had brought him his “ Y.” He was much less 
conscious of the forces in his soul that made him ad¬ 
mired. There were poor boys about him; he had 
not hesitated or reasoned a moment in refusing a 
birthday gift of an automobile for himself. He was 
conscious of no particular virtue in the abnegation. 
It was merely his nature to act out his instincts 
when they were “decent” — that was a favorite 
word of his — and to repress them when they were 
not. When Pop told him the quality was rare he 
merely laughed. It was his unshakable conviction 
that the rest of the world was exactly like himself. 

Tommy’s first step in college struck a key from 
which there had been no discords thereafter. He 
had come down from Andover with a reputation 
and a liberal allowance in one hand, and in the 
other a profound faith that the glory of Yale lay in 
her democracy. Therefore, against the clamor of 
his friends, he had taken a room in Pierson, the 
habitat of the poor and undistinguished. It trou¬ 
bled his simple heart that his friends, despite their 
hearty accord with his theory, yet went to the elec¬ 
tric lights and elevator of Garland’s, nevertheless. 



THE GREEN SCARF 


1 


It was only across the street, they told him. But 
it was more than a street that separated them, 
though Tommy never suspected it. 

His thoughts, as he stared at the old fireplace 
before which so many generations of youth had 
sat and dreamed, went back to that decision of four 
years past. It was rather curious, he thought, that 
he had to face something similar now. Once more 
fate put the question. Would he stand on his own 
feet, or lean? Leaning, something told him, was 
not “decent.” Leaning was for the crippled in 
spirit. It was like lying abed of a morning. There 
was a strain in Tommy that made him afraid of 
comfort. 

A flush of rose suddenly touched his head like 
a halo. 

“ Good Lord! ” cried the Egghead, stumbling to 
his feet. “It’s daylight!” 

Farr stretched his arms. “Turn down an empty 
glass,” he murmured softly. 

“I — I-” Culver swallowed hard. “Let’s 

t-try-” He made an effort to speak. Then 

he threw himself on the lounge, burying his face 
in the pillows. His shoulders shook. 

Nothing more was said. The few who could 
even approximate speech felt the utter banality of 
words too keenly. The others could only wink 
rapidly and feel absurdly ashamed of the emotion 





6 


THE GREEN SCARF 


that gripped them. To all of those boys, sitting 
soberly in the gradually softening shadows, it was 
a moment of exquisite sadness. To one who has 
not experienced the poignancy of that moment, 
when lives which have grown together like the roots 
of young trees planted side by side, are abruptly 
torn asunder, perhaps forever, the pain of it may 
seem a little foolish, even a little droll. But to 
one who has experienced it, who has gone at last 
through that agony of formal handshaking, of try¬ 
ing to speak against the welling of unmanly tears, 
of sobbing, labored jests, it must always remain as 
very precious among sweet memories. 

Tommy and Pop went back to their rooms to¬ 
gether. They talked little—scattered phrases, not 
listened to — about the heat, the chances of the team 
next fall, and suchlike, calculated in irrelevance. 

They held each other’s hands a long time before 
they parted in the hall. Two big tears welled up 
behind the spectacles of Farr, the unemotional, and 
rolled down his lean cheeks. 

“I — I s’pose tomorrow I’ll think you’re as big 
an ass as the next fellow, Tommy,” he sniffed. “ But 
tonight-” 

Tommy’s clock went off at six-thirty as usual. 
And, equally as usual, he took his jog around the 
cemetery. That had been part of his morning rou- 




THE GREEN SCARF 


7 


tine since the day he discovered how disagreeable 
it was. 

As he stood rubbing himself down after his 
sho v^er, he began to suffer the assaults of doubt. 
He was to meet his family at breakfast, and there, 
he had resolved, he was to tell them his plans for 
the future. 

For the first time he thought of possible un¬ 
pleasantness. It had not occurred to him before 
that his father might be disappointed. The old 
gentleman was hard-headed; he might find his son’s 
notion unsound, a trifle ridiculous perhaps. And 
his mother! A vague disquiet came over him. He 
did hope she’d understand. 

He walked slowly over to the Taft, planning his 
method of attack. His mother would be sure to be 
hurt; that made him timid. 

The grapefruit passed with trivialities. The 
eggs came and went without his broaching what 
was on his mind. Then Marion, his sister, gave 
him an opening. 

“ I suppose you’ll come straight home,” she said. 
“ Della Rossiter’s going to be there. And Pete 
and-” 

“No,” said Tommy, staring at his plate, “I’m 
not coming straight home.” 

A quizzical smile twinkled in his father’s eyes. 
“You’re not going to work?” There was irony 




8 


THE GREEN SCARF 


in the tone, unconcealed. 

“Yes,” said Tommy, reddening almost guiltily. 
“I am.” 

His mother showed her surprise. “But, Tom, 
no vacation at all?” 

“ No, mother. I’m going to start right away.” 

His father coughed. His question was put indif¬ 
ferently. “Made up your mind to anything, son?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“ The bank, I suppose ? ” 

“No, sir.” 

Mr. Cass’ eyebrows elevated. “Prefer the ore 
business, eh?” 

“ No, sir.” Tommy pushed back his chair. He 
realized that the time had come to be definite. “ The 
fact is, I — I’ve got a job.” 

“You’ve got what?” His mother was frankly 
incredulous. 

“A job, mother. Ten dollars a week to start. 
I’ll-” 

Marion opened her lips to interrupt, but her 
father motioned her to silence. He had leaned for¬ 
ward, studying his son through narrowed lids. 

“Who got it for you, son?” he asked gently. 

Tommy felt vaguely ashamed of himself. It 
made him stammer: “N-n-no-body, sir. There 
was an ad in the Weekly . I — wrote. The man 
was in New York Tuesday. I — I saw him. Bur- 



THE GREEN SCARF 


9 


roughs is his name; John W. Burroughs.” 

“The business?” 

“Paints and that sort of thing. Pretty good 
concern, I guess. It’s in Chicago.” 

“But, Tom, dear,” broke in his mother, “if you 
liked the paint business, your father could have 
gotten you a position with Sherwin Williams, right 
in Cleveland. Couldn’t you, Will?” 

“ Easily,” said her husband. 

“You don’t understand, mother,” explained 
Tommy patiently. “It isn’t that I’m particularly 
crazy about the paint business. It — it was the ad¬ 
vertising angle. There’s a big field in advertising. 
This offered a chance-” 

“But even advertising. You could have gotten 
into that, right in Cleveland, too. Why, your Uncle 
Albert-” 

“ Yes, of course. But, you see, this puts me on 
my own hook. I’m twenty-one now, you know. 
Father an’ you an’ Uncle Albert an’, oh, everybody’s 
been taking care of me now long enough. I want 
a crack at taking care of myself.” 

“What do you know of this Mr.— Mr.-” 

“Burroughs; John W. Burroughs.” 

“Yes, Mr. Burroughs. What do you know 
about him?” 

“Nothing much. About thirty-six, I’d say. 
Snappy talker, with a cold gray eye that goes 






10 


THE GREEN SCARF 


right through a fellow.” 

“Don’t you know anything more than the color 
of his eyes?” 

“No, mother. He was asking the questions — 
I wasn’t.” 

“And you mean, you’ll live in Chicago ? ” 

“Yes, mother.” 

“On ten dollars a week? It isn’t possible!” 

“Lots of people do.” 

“But won’t you come home first, just for a 
visit?” 

“I promised to take the five-thirty out of New 
York tonight.” 

He heard his mother say something in expostu¬ 
lation, but his attention was fixed on his father. 
Mr. Cass was studying him with an expression dif¬ 
ficult to fathom. 

“Well, what do you think of it, father?” he 
ventured presently. 

The reply was brief, almost meaningless, uttered 
with eyes averted. “I — I hope you’ll keep me 
posted, son.” * 

Tommy could not decide whether his father was 
pleased or not. 

Tommy’s thoughts were turbulent as he sat alone 
in the smoking compartment that night, listening 
to the rhythmic pound of the wheels on the track. 

He was speeding into the darkness of a world 



THE GREEN SCARF 


ii 


unknown. It amused him to picture himself as a 
knight of romance, faring forth to slaughter drag¬ 
ons. Only the exact nature of the dragons was 
exceedingly vague. And he was dubious about his 
weapons. He was a bonehead at figures, knew 
nothing at all about bookkeeping, compound inter¬ 
est, fractions. Gee! He wished he’d taken one of 
those business courses downtown, or studied a lit¬ 
tle more in general. How could he earn ten dol¬ 
lars a week? 

His thoughts took a larger range. Were there 
temptations out there in the darkness, the same old 
devils he had battled with in the already distant 
world of boyhood? Were there the same lures for 
unwary feet? And what was there in life — out¬ 
side— that corresponded to the “Y” of college? 
What was success, as men spelled it ? How did one 
know when one had achieved it ? 

Pop Farr’s image of the green scarf recurred. 
Did all the faithful who set out for Mecca know 
what they would find at the end of their pilgrimage? 
And if one traveled alone, how did he know when 
he had reached the altar of true belief? Were there 
signs ? 

Suddenly the immensity of the undertaking came 
over him. He saw himself in a flash, not as a pala¬ 
din, full panoplied in shining armor, but as the 
frightened, simple-hearted lad he was. An intol- 



12 


THE GREEN SCARF 


erable loneliness assailed him. The rough fraternity 
of his mates, the wise, tolerant understanding of 
his father, the gentle affection of his mother, seemed 
suddenly infinitely precious and necessary. The 
world no longer teased him in false welcome; it was 
a dreary wilderness, filled with grinning shadow 
shapes that mocked him in his exile. 

Tommy crawled into his berth that night, crushed 
in utter desolation, and presently he cried himself 
to sleep. 



CHAPTER II 


T HE afternoon was waning. Habitations were 
as frequent as telegraph poles. The neat fields 
of Indiana had given place to the desolate loneliness 
of the dune country. The single track doubled, and 
doubled again. More tracks sprang out of no¬ 
where. The clatter over switches and crossings was 
continuous. 

Grass disappeared; cinders and bare earth sup¬ 
planted it. Obese gas tanks, great, sprawling fac¬ 
tories, all at loose ends, barren freight yards dotted 
with brooding semaphores, crowded all charm from 
the landscape. A dull jangle of bells in discord, 
the hoarse breathing of locomotives, deep, mourn¬ 
ful whistles far away, sounded over the roar of the 
speeding train. 

A drizzling rain was falling. Against the horizon 
lights began to twinkle mistily, and in the somber 
skies burst sudden, sulphurous meteors, lending 
brief majesty to the rolling smoke clouds. 

The gloomy twilight settled rapidly. The flat 
dinginess outside became a purple blur against the 
car windows. The winking lamps of an electric 
sign flashed — and were gone. The white splendor 
13 


14 


THE GREEN SCARF 


of a “ flood-lighted ” tower loomed out of the gray 
distance, suddenly obliterated, as the Limited, with 
a thundering growl, rolled into the train shed. 

Tommy felt his heart contract. His lips twisted 
wryly at the acrid taste of smoke in his mouth. The 
foul breath of the monstrous place was already in 
his nostrils. He was afraid he was not going to 
like Chicago. 

His father had wisely insisted upon his taking 
capital to tide him over until his weekly ten dollars 
began rolling in. So he hailed a taxi, after check¬ 
ing his trunk, and went to the Blackstone. 

The quiet, unobtrusive elegance of the hotel 
rather surprised him. The unexpectedness of it was 
like entering the subdued charm of a fine old library 
after a climb over the back fence, with a stumbling 
progress through ashes and garbage cans. 

That night he lay awake a long time, listening to 
the voices of the Mistress of the Lakes. Even the 
haughty walls of the Blackstone could not shut them 
out; the peremptory squawk of the motor horns, 
the soft clang of bells, the never-ending cough of 
locomotives on the Illinois Central, the gentle flutter 
of rain against the windows — behind all these the 
deep, murmurous rumble which had no name. 

He awoke in the morning to a shining sun. For 
a moment he lay blinking, trying to grasp the real¬ 
ity of things. Then he saw the gray veil of soot 



THE GREEN SCARF 


15 


on the counterpane, and he chuckled grimly. The 
elms, twinkling in the dew, outside the old rooms 
in Vanderbilt, seemed very far away. The fra¬ 
grance of lilac, the soft twitter of birds — all that 
was of a vanished past. There were no cloistered 
solitudes here. This was Chicago—life! 

After breakfast he summoned a taxi to take him 
to the office of Mr. Burroughs, at a number on 
Diversey Parkway. It was like Chicago, he told 
himself, to put its factories on boulevards. It was 
nearly an hour before he was set down in front of 
the tawny brick building, with the plain wooden 
sign at the door marked: 

CHAMPION PAINT & VARNISH CO. 

“ I guess I should have taken a Pullman sleeper,” 
was his sarcastic comment to the chauffeur as he 
paid his fare. 

The latter grinned cheerfully. “Why, boy, this 
ain’t far out. You can go north for another six 
miles Tore you get out o’ the city.” 

His words made Tommy feel physically minute. 
The long ride itself had somehow brought home to 
him the magnitude of the task he had set for him¬ 
self of “ making good ” in this colossus of the plains. 

He sighed gently, and went up the wooden steps. 
The girl at the telephone switchboard looked up 



i6 


THE GREEN SCARF 


from her crocheting long enough to accept his card, 
and put the official question: “ Your business ? ” 

Tommy reddened and said that he didn’t know; 
he thought Mr. Burroughs was expecting him. The 
heightened color made his good looks better, and 
she smiled amiably. 

He followed her down a passage, broken at in¬ 
tervals by frosted-glass doors. She halted before 
one, opening it for him. He thanked her with a 
shy little smile, which went straight to her heart, 
and entered. The door closed softly behind him. 

Blinking, with the sudden light from the broad 
windows in his eyes, he looked at Mr. Burroughs, 
and Mr. Burroughs looked at him. He was not 
aware of this, however, for the lithe young man 
in the gray suit, seated at the broad desk, appeared 
to be intent on an examination of his fingers. 

There was silence for a moment, after formal 
greetings had been exchanged. Then Mr. Bur¬ 
roughs, with a sudden movement, opened a drawer 
at his side and brought out a box of cigars. 
“Smoke?” he asked abruptly. 

Tommy thanked him, at the same time taking out 
his own silver-mounted pigskin cigarette case. 
“May I have a match?” 

Mr. Burroughs, staring at the glass desk pad, 
knocked the ash from his cigar. “I don’t believe 
in cigarettes,” he said softly. 



THE GREEN SCARF 


17 


Tommy flushed. Then he looked up, and his eyes 
met those of the older man squarely. “ Thank you, 
Mr. Burroughs,” he said. “ I’m glad you told me.” 

The man in the gray suit spoke crisply: “ I try 
to say things before — not after.” 

Tommy hesitated a moment; then he leaned for¬ 
ward and took a cigar. “ I’m ready to begin,” he 
ventured. 

“ Begin what ? ” 

“Working.” 

“For whom?” The question was clipped off 
shortly. 

“Why, for you.” Tommy looked blank. 

“ Sure?” 

“I — I don’t think I understand-” 

“You must. Now listen.” There was a subtle, 
restless power in the man at the desk that made 
Tommy think of a tightly coiled spring. “You’re 
going to work for — Thomas Cass. To do that 
successfully requires that you work for me. Un¬ 
derstand ? ” 

“I —I think so.” 

“Enlightened self-interest, Cass.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“You played football, I think you told me?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“ I never went to college myself. I’ve played 
business instead of games. But the principle’s the 




i8 


THE GREEN SCARF 


same. The team first. Get my thought?” 

“Well, yes —I-” 

Mr. Burroughs drummed pensively against his 
teeth with a pencil. “You took your degree?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Think it’s worth anything—in money?” 

Tommy thought a moment. Then he looked up 
at the clear, cold gaze fixed upon him appraisingly. 
It made the words trembling on his tongue seem 
rather flabby. He decided to be candid. 

“ Yes, I do,” he said doggedly. 

“Why?” The challenge was biting. 

“ Because—well, it means you’ve gotten through. 
It isn’t much; any fellow can do it, of course. But 
it’s something. And if it doesn’t mean you’ve 
learned anything, it does mean you’ve learned how 
to learn, to a certain extent, that is. And it-” 

“ Umn! ” Mr. Burroughs sighed noncommittally, 
looking out of the window. “ I think you’d better 
meet Mr. Dickinson. He’ll be your immediate 
boss.” He touched one of the many buttons at his 
elbow. 

Tommy was crestfallen. It was obvious that 
his effort at frankness had failed lamentably. Next 
time he would know better. 

His words had not been clear. Perhaps, if he 

qualified them- He glanced up, and found the 

chill gray eyes fixed on him again. “You’ve set- 






THE GREEN SCARF 


19 


tied on living quarters ? ” 

“ No, sir.” 

Mr. Burroughs was uniformly surprising. He 
fumbled under a pile of books and brought forth 
a slip of paper. “Here’s a list of boarding places. 
They’re all good, I think. The rates are marked.” 

“Oh, thank you,” stammered Tommy, marveling. 
“ It’s awfully-” 

“ I’d suggest you pick your class and look them 
over this afternoon.” 

Just then Mr. Dickinson came in. “In charge 
of advertising,” explained Mr. Burroughs curtly. 
Tommy, acknowledging the introduction, surveyed 
the newcomer. He was a pallid young man, spec¬ 
tacled, loose-jointed, and soft of flesh, who shook 
hands limply. It was impossible not to contrast him 
with the tense alertness of Mr. Burroughs. One 
thought also of old Pop Farr’s lazy drawl; Mr. 
Dickinson’s wasn’t lazy—it was weak. 

Tommy sought instinctively to be liked. He 
smiled tentatively at the advertising manager. But 
the latter seemed not to have seen him. The rebuff 
Mr. Burroughs had given him was intensified. It 
hurt; even angered him a little. The fellows on the 
campus had been only too ready to return his 
smiles. Then he thought of that long taxi ride 
through street after street of teeming buildings. 
Who was he, anyway? These men of business 




20 


THE GREEN SCARF 


were not snubbing him; they were scarcely con¬ 
scious of his existence. 

A gesture from the figure at the desk, and Mr. 
Dickinson opened the door. Tommy hesitated. But 
Mr. Burroughs was already immersed in a pile of 
papers. The inference was obvious. 

“Ever done any advertising?” asked Mr. Dick¬ 
inson as they made their way down a dark hall¬ 
way. 

Tommy’s faith in frankness had been shaken, but 
not destroyed. “No,” he said, “I’m just out of 
college.” 

“What college?” 

“Yale.” He was unable to prevent a faint note 
of pride from creeping into his voice. 

Mr. Dickinson apparently was not affected by it. 
“Here’s our quarters,” he said listlessly, opening 
a door marked “Advertising Department.” His 
quick glance took in a drawing table, a row of fil¬ 
ing cases, very dusty, and a vague miscellany of 
papers and tattered magazines. The wall was lined 
with lithographs, calendars, bright-colored posters. 
The floor was carpetless. It was all in depressing 
contrast to the virile elegance of Mr. Burroughs’ 
office, with its bare, gleaming mahogany, and the 
soft Persian underfoot. 

There were introductions immediately. “Mr. 
Cass; Mr. Lieberstadt, our artist, and Miss Gallery.” 



THE GREEN SCARF 


21 


Tommy shook hands. The artist, a red-headed 
youth, with a green eye-shade, torn at one edge, 
pushed up on his forehead, removed the half-burned 
cigarette which was hanging from an unshaven lip. 
“Glad t’ meetcha,” he observed, returning imme¬ 
diately to his work. The stenographer, a straight¬ 
sided female of advanced years, merely smiled 
amiably, exhibiting two rows of very bad teeth. 

Tommy’s thoughts were centered on the artist’s 
cigarette. He wondered; then he felt Mr. Dickin¬ 
son’s hand on his elbow, and he was gently pro¬ 
pelled toward a door marked “ Private ” at the end 
of the room. “A special cage for me and my as¬ 
sistant,” was the explanation. 

A moment later he heard himself introduced to 
“Miss Manard.” Recollecting the ancient stenog¬ 
rapher in the other room, he was not immediately 
attentive. Then his eyes opened. A girl of about 
his own age had risen from the big double desk, with 
hand outstretched. 

He was not given to the observation of details — 
particularly feminine details. But he was acutely 
conscious of Miss Manard’s appearance. She was 
not at all in key with her rather dingy surround¬ 
ings. There was as much charm in her appearance 
as in any girl he had ever seen. The gown of soft 
blue silk, suggesting rather than revealing her lithe 
figure, with the low collar of ivory lace, was, he 



22 


THE GREEN SCARF 


concluded inwardly, “a peach!” 

But she was also different from all the girls he 
knew. There was an open frankness in her clear 
brown eyes that made one think of men — fellows 
like Pete Culver and Burton — and there was a crisp 
incisiveness to her voice, an alert assurance about 
her whole manner altogether surprising in a girl. 

He couldn’t just explain the distinction. Girls 
clung. The thought of Miss Manard clinging to 
anybody almost made him laugh. He decided that 
if she liked a fellow he’d have to be a regular chap 
and no mistake; if she didn’t- 

Mr. Dickinson unexpectedly said something that 
filled Tommy with a strange mixture of gratitude 
and apprehension. “ I’m going out for a moment, 
Miss Manard,” he said in his colorless way. “ Will 
you explain things to Mr. Cass ? ” 

When the door closed behind him, she went back 
to her desk. “I hope this litter won’t set you a 
bad example,” she said cheerfully, making a brisk 
pretense of tidying up. 

Tommy was tongue-tied. He felt extraordinarily 
foolish. 

“ Sit down, Mr. Cass. Let’s talk about things.” 

“ Thank you.” The rich timbre of her voice 
sounded in his ears like an organ chord. “ Thank 
you,” he repeated, and sat down. But unfortunately 
he was thinking of Miss Manard’s complexion and 




THE GREEN SCARF 


23 


morning roses newly washed with dew rather than 
of the precise location of the chair, so that he sat 
down, very firmly and painfully, on the floor. 

The hot blood flamed up to his hair. There was 
a tense moment as they stared blankly at each other. 
“ Well,” he growled savagely at last, “why in thun¬ 
der don’t you laugh ? ” 

She was staring at him, her eyebrows slowly ris¬ 
ing. A faint quiver appeared around her lips, and 
lines deepened in the corners of her eyes. The trem¬ 
bling of her features became uncontrollable. Sud¬ 
denly she threw herself back in her chair. “Oh, 
oh!” she cried. “I can’t help it. I know I 
shouldn’t, but I can’t! I can’t! ” 

Tommy, still sitting on the floor, looked at her 
ruefully. “Can’t what?” he demanded irritably. 

“I — I only just saw it!” She covered her 
mouth with her hand. “Oh, look — your hat!’ 

He got up stiffly. “ If you mean to-” he be¬ 

gan. 

“ Y-you’re sitting on it! ” she choked. 

He looked down at the floor behind him. Then 
he understood. The bright, new expensive straw 
was none of those things any longer. He surveyed 
the wreck thoughtfully. “I seem to have spoiled 
my hat,” he said. 

“ Rather! ” She went off into another spasm. 

He stared at her dubiously. “ I — I suppose I 



24 


THE GREEN SCARF 


ought to apologize/’ he began. 

She wiped the tears from her eyes. “ No need. 
Men always lose their tempers when women laugh 
at them.” 

“ I haven't lost my temper! ” 

“ Oh, Mr. Cass! ” She collapsed in another burst 
of laughter. 

He watched her for a moment. “ Say! ” he de¬ 
manded suddenly, a singular grimness coming over 
his red features. “ Maybe you’d like to know what 
made me do that circus stuff?” 

She sobered instantly at the look in his eyes. She 
studied him thoughtfully. Then his unspoken mes¬ 
sage came unerringly on the wings of intuition. 
“ No,” she said slowly, “ I wouldn’t.” 

“You haven’t any business to look like that,” he 
grumbled under his breath. 

She gave no evidence that she had heard him. 
The smile so suddenly extinguished in her eyes gave 
place to a cold gleam. She leaned forward over 
the desk, and her lips formed a straight line. 

“See here, Mr. Cass,” she said icily, “I think 
you’re a nice boy, but if you and I are going to be 
friends you’ve got to find some other reason for 
falling over chairs than — than- You under¬ 

stand, don’t you ? ” 

“Yes,” said Tommy meekly. “I understand.” 

“All right, then. Let’s get down to brass tacks.” 




CHAPTER III 


I N THAT memorable interview with Mr. Bur¬ 
roughs in New York, Tommy had phrased his 
aspirations simply. He would start at the bottom, 
of course. All he asked was assurance that he 
started on a ladder. 

Nevertheless, ten minutes of Miss Manard’s dis¬ 
course upon “brass tacks” engendered doubt. A 
suspicion of inadequacy became a consciousness of 
original sin. His attention wandered. He did not 
hear all she said. But he heard enough to be con¬ 
vinced that he knew nothing of real value, and un¬ 
happily skeptical that he ever would. 

“ The office opens at half past eight,” she finished. 
“It closes when the work is done, usually about 
five-thirty. You will — are you listening to me, 
Mr. Cass?” 

Tommy came back guiltily. “No,” he admitted 
frankly, “ I wasn’t.” 

She studied him, biting her lip. “ I don’t suppose 
you’d care to tell me what you were thinking 
about ?” 

An engaging candor was an instinct with him. 
Though he flushed and stammered a little, he told 
25 


26 


THE GREEN SCARF 


the truth completely: “ I — I was invited to a house 
party before I came out here. I — I was just think¬ 
ing about it. Things are so — so different!” 

“ Different? ” 

“Rather!” He flashed a diffident smile at her 
before his eyes dropped. There was a boyish charm 
in his embarrassment, of which fortunately he was 
quite unconscious. “You see, I never had a girl 
to talk to me this way before in my life. It sounds 
awfully conceited to say it, but—but — well, you 
know, girls always — er—kind of looked up to — 
to — a fellow!” 

She surveyed him quizzically for a moment. A 
suggestion of a twinkle hovered in her eyes. Then, 
with a sudden movement, she snapped the rubber 
band from a roll of proofs and cleared an open 
space among the litter of papers on her desk. “ You 
might begin on that electro cabinet, Mr. Cass,” she 
said evenly. “You’ll find the plates numbered to 
correspond with the drawers.” 

Her gesture made Tommy feel that he had been 
swept to the coldest outer fringe of the solar system. 
“I hope you understand what I meant,” he began 
earnestly. “ I-” 

Her reply was distant and definitely impersonal: 
“If any questions arise, Mr. Cass, don’t hesitate to 
come to me.” 

“Yes — ma’am.” Tommy had an extraordinary 




THE GREEN SCARF 


27 


sense of minuteness as he backed awkwardly out of 
the private office. 

He set diligently about the task of reestablishing 
order in the electro cabinet. But it was impossible 
to keep his thoughts from straying into unrelated 
bypaths. He suffered a kind of detachment, as if 
one part of personality stood to one side mocking 
the other. Memory, vociferous imp, perched on his 
shoulder, jeering. “Ho! ho!” it laughed. “It 
seems to me I recall the day when forty thousand 
people rose as one to cheer the mighty boot of Cass. 
And hordes of little boys followed him on the 
streets. And newspapers printed his picture. And 
girls-” 

“Aw, shut up! ” growled Tommy savagely. “An¬ 
cient history! Stone-age stuff! ” 

It seemed only a moment, though it was nearly 
an hour, before he heard Miss Manard’s cool, in¬ 
quiring voice: “Have you finished, Mr. Cass?” 

“ Ho! ho! ” screamed the Imp deliriously. “ My 
eye, how she treats the great Cass! Everybody in 
the office is laughing at you, Tommy.” 

Tommy let fly instinctively at the pest on his 
shoulder, and succeeded only in imprinting a great 
smudge of soot on his crimson cheek. “Let ’em 
laugh,” he gritted through his teeth. “It’s their 
turn now!” To Miss Manard he merely said 
quietly: “Not yet.” 




28 


THE GREEN SCARF 


Despite the difficulty in concentration, due to the 
incessant ridicule of the Imp at his ear, he perse¬ 
vered doggedly, and shortly before noon the task 
was completed. 

He went in at once to report to Miss Manard. 
"It’s all done,” he said briskly. 

She went out to look. He watched her as she 
went rapidly through the drawers. Presently she 
glanced up at him, a curious expression in her clear 
eyes. “Tomorrow, Mr. Cass,” she said in an un¬ 
dertone, but distinctly, “you can do it over. You’ve 
mixed electros and originals. Electros have a cop¬ 
per shell on a lead base — see, like this.” Her long 
fingers held up one of the engravings for his in¬ 
spection. Lithe, graceful fingers- “Do try 

and remember that next time.” 

Before he could speak, she had gone back to her 
room. “ Ho! ho! ” roared the Imp. “ Flunked on 
the first trial! Oh, Tommy, if you could only see 
your face!” 

The noon whistle sounded gratefully after a 
morning under Miss Manard. Tommy lost no time 
in putting on his coat and slipping out to the wash 
room. And he did not dally in cleaning up. He 
could not bear to face any one just then. 

His departure from the building was almost a 
flight. Gusts of black rage alternated with fierce re¬ 
solves to cast himself into the lake. A fine start. 




THE GREEN SCARF 


29 


indeed! Recollection of his bright confidence of 
success made him writhe with shame. The green 
scarf — ugh! 

He had but one thought — to put as many miles 
as possible between him and the scene of his humili¬ 
ation. Thus inspired, he took the first car which 
presented itself, and threw himself back in a seat to 
glower at life and curse Mr. Burroughs and Miss 
Manard and himself impartially to shriveled cin¬ 
ders. Then presently he awoke to a realization that 
he was an hour’s ride from his destination and rap¬ 
idly making it longer. 

“ No use being a big fool just because you’re a 
small one,” said the Imp sensibly. Rather shame¬ 
faced, he took out the list of boarding houses Mr. 
Burroughs had given him. The aid of the con¬ 
ductor was enlisted, and, in consequence, by five 
o’clock, he was officially the occupant of a small, 
dark, but reasonably clean room on West Fullerton 
Avenue, having paid a week’s rent in advance and 
sent for his trunk and bag. 

This matter of abode settled, he recalled that un¬ 
der the stress of wrath and humiliation he had for¬ 
gotten his luncheon. So, at the unseemly hour of 
half past five, he sat down before the white-enam¬ 
eled counter of a very inexpensive restaurant and 
consumed a pot of nourishing, filling, and, on the 
whole, savory baked beans. It occurred to him that 



32 


THE GREEN SCARE 


his breakfast had cost exactly five times as much as 
his dinner, and that made him realize what a life¬ 
time of experience had intervened between the two 
meals. As he washed down the bitter recollections 
of the day in a long draught from the massive glass, 
he decided that he had never been so lonely and 
generally unhappy in his whole life. 

An eloquent wish broke from his lips. By jingo, 
he’d like to make Miss Manard cry! 

He rose early next morning, and was inside the 
doors of the Champion Paint and Varnish Company 
by eight o’clock. The result was that when Miss 
Manard arrived he was able to greet her with the 
announcement — triumph not wholly concealed — 
that the electro cabinet had had its second renova¬ 
tion and was ready for inspection. 

She went through the drawers rapidly, as before. 
Her comment was brief, but satisfying. “ Good 
work! ” was all she said. 

He rather expected immediate transfer to duties 
of graver import, but apparently she had nothing 
for him at the moment. He was idle for an hour, 
until Mr. Dickinson came in. 

He was sure, then, that some occupation would be 
forthcoming. But, beyond a faint nod of greeting, 
his existence continued to be ignored. Finally, after 
listlessly glancing through the magazines scattered 
about and becoming excessively bored, he resolved 



THE GREEN SCARF 


3 i 


to make his presence felt. 

“ Isn’t there something I can do ? ” he asked plain¬ 
tively, when the advertising manager chanced to 
pass him. 

Mr. Dickinson halted, looking vaguely annoyed. 
“Why—er — yes, I suppose so. You might run 
through those scrapbooks and see what we’ve been 
getting out.” 

He spoke without enthusiasm, and Tommy fol¬ 
lowed his suggestion in the same spirit. It was 
footless work! At first he made a real effort to in¬ 
still interest in the monotonous pages of proofs, but 
it was not long before he found himself yawning. 

He looked up from one particularly cavernous 
gape to find Miss Manard’s gaze fixed upon him in¬ 
tently. 

“I — I beg your pardon,” he stammered, rising 
hastily. “I-” 

Her question was whimsical: “ Reading the 

lives of the saints?” 

He sensed a faint derision, and he tried to ex¬ 
plain. But she waved him silent. “ Come into my 
office, won’t you? Perhaps I can make it mean 
something.” 

He followed her, relieved, and yet a little appre¬ 
hensive. 

“ Sit there in Mr. Dickinson’s place,” she said. 
“He’s gone out.” 




32 


THE GREEN SCARF 


Piling the bulky scrapbooks on the desk, he 
obeyed. She drew up another chair and sat down 
beside him — so close that a strand of her hair 
grazed his cheek. He was conscious of a subtle 
fragrance, like the freshness in the air after a thun¬ 
der shower. One thought of flowers. It was very 
difficult to concentrate. But a glance from her 
serene eyes helped noticeably. It was almost as 
specific as a rap on the knuckles. 

“ Mr. Dickinson asked me to look these over,” he 
explained apologetically. 

She nodded. “Yes, of course. But it ought to 
be done understandingly. They’re different kinds 
of ads, you see. Dealer, consumer, keyed, mail 
order, general publicity, and so on. Then copy has 
different purposes. Take this series, for instance. 
It’s meant to sell service rather than paint.” 

“ But I don’t see where Champion gets anything 
out of this sort of thing,” protested Tommy, getting 
interested in spite of himself. “ There’s nothing but 
the name of the company in small type at the bot¬ 
tom!” 

“ Exactly. Looks like the loveliest altruism, 
doesn’t it? Well, it’s not. Here’s the idea. Build 
up business in general — new business — and some 
of it’s bound to come to us. It’s creative advertis¬ 
ing, the finest kind.” 

She went on turning the pages with a lambent 



THE GREEN SCARF 


33 


sparkle of comment and elucidation. At one large 
proof in color, she paused. “ Hello!” she cried. 
“ There’s a great ad — one of the first I ever did.” 

Tommy’s exclamation was unforced: “It’s a 
peach! ” He really thought it was. 

She leaned back in her chair and stared at him. 
“Why?” she demanded bluntly. 

He was disconcerted by her severity. “Because 

— well — because-” 

She interrupted him: “ Because it has a pretty 

picture in it and reads smoothly; that’s what you’re 
going to say. Now listen to me, Mr. Cass. It hap¬ 
pens to be one of the worst pieces of copy that ever 
went out of this shop.” 

“No!” Tommy studied the proof, genuinely 
amazed. 

“Yes. So just put this down as Lesson I. The 
only thing that matters about an ad is the sales it 
makes. An ad isn’t a work of art; it’s a piece of 
machinery. And it isn’t worth a button unless it 
works.” 

Tommy had a sudden access of wisdom. “ Why 

— why doesn’t that apply to art?” he said slowly, 
feeling for his words. “Take books, for instance. 
They’re art, aren’t they?” 

“ Some of them.” 

“Well, take certain kinds of books — funny 
books. A funny book that isn’t funny isn’t any 




34 


THE GREEN SCARF 


good no matter how good, I mean, I — oh, you 
know what I mean, don’t you?” 

She turned and studied him, faint lines of per¬ 
plexity or astonishment between her eyes. “Why 
— Mr. Cass, you—you’re positively profound!” 

He was hurt, and showed it. “You’re laughing 
at me! ” 

She looked out of the window for a moment 
without replying, and when she spoke it was dream¬ 
ily, as if to herself: “ Maybe art is just expression, 
worthless if it doesn’t register; nonexistent even. 
That leads to droll conclusions. Perhaps these 
motion-study people will get after the painters and 
the musicians and show them the way to greatness. 
Efficiency’s merely the shortest line between two 
points. Maybe we’ll have finer art when artists 
learn that. Efficiency in morals is sincerity. Ef¬ 
ficiency in—— But good heavens, Mr. Cass! 
What do you mean by wasting the firm’s time on 
such dangerously interesting ideas? Take yourself 
off —fly!” 

Tommy picked up his books and went back to his 
desk in the outer office, vaguely troubled with a con¬ 
sciousness of false pretense. He had not Intended 
to be “interesting;” certainly not “dangerous.” 
And as to “ ideas,” he was quite healthily unaware 
of their possession. 

It was over three weeks before Tommy had an- 




THE GREEN SCARF 


35 


other interview with Mr. Burroughs. The sum¬ 
mons came late one afternoon, just as he was pre¬ 
paring to leave. 

The president of the Champion Paint and Var¬ 
nish Company was busy telephoning as he entered. 
Presently the receiver clicked on its hook, but Mr. 
Burroughs did not speak. Tommy waited a mo¬ 
ment. Then he coughed discreetly. Still no sound 
save the scratch of a pen signing letters. 

Mr. Burroughs suddenly leaned back in his chair, 
and brought the tips of his fingers together. “Do 
you know why I put you in the advertising depart¬ 
ment ?” he asked abruptly. 

“ Why — no, sir.” 

“Think you’re fitted for advertising?” 

“I — I don’t know, sir.” Tommy’s heart sank. 
There was certainly nothing very friendly in Mr. 
Burroughs’ manner. 

“ Umn! Quite right. Neither do I.” He leaned 
forward, shooting the question sharply: “Like 
business ? ” 

“Yes, sir. Very much.” 

“Think you’re fitted for it?” 

“Why — yes, sir. I think so.” 

“ So do I. That’s why I put you in the advertis¬ 
ing department. Advertising is another name for 
sales — and sales is the law and the prophets of 
business.” 



3 ^ 


THE GREEN SCARF 


“ Yes, sir.” 

Mr. Burroughs’ strong teeth clicked on the end 
of a cigar. “ Going to make a change, Cass.” 

“ Yes, sir.” Tommy scarcely breathed. 

“Dickinson leaves us this week. Miss Manard 
takes his place.” 

“Miss Manard?” 

“Yes. Surprise you?” 

“Why, no; of course not. But-” 

“A remarkable woman, Cass. It isn’t often that 
selling sense and artistic judgment are so well com¬ 
bined. She’s done a lot for this business.” 

“ She’s been mighty nice to me! ” exclaimed 
Tommy heartily. 

Mr. Burroughs failed to take that lead. “ Miss 
Manard,” he went on phlegmatically, “has sug¬ 
gested you as her assistant. What do you think of 
it?” 

“Why—I — it’s awfully kind of her.” 

“Umn! Kind — yes. But not wise. You’re not 
competent.” 

Tommy fancied that Mr. Burroughs’ lip curled. 
A chill settled on his soul. Not competent. How it 
would hurt his father to hear that! And the green 
scarf! A sorry ending to his pilgrimage — not 
competent! Then he realized that Mr. Burroughs 
was still speaking. 

“You can’t sell without knowing your product, 



THE GREEN SCARF 


37 


Cass. A few weeks in the factory wouldn't hurt 
you.” 

“No, sir.” 

“What's chemistry to you — just a name?” 

“I — I took a course-” 

“ It may not hinder you. Kindly report in the 
morning to Mr. Frembach. Live chemistry for a 
while.” 

The abrupt creak of Mr. Burroughs’ chair and 
the rustle of papers indicated that the interview was 
ended. Tommy stole out of the office quietly. 

He was uncertain of his feelings. There was 
elation that his fears had been unfounded. But he 
was also conscious of a distinct depression. He 
tried to tell himself that he hated to leave the art 
and science of advertising — quite abstractly—oh, 
quite! How he would miss the leaden loveliness 
of electros, the pungent, intoxicating odor of new- 
pulled proofs, the luxuriant beauty of process work! 
But the Imp, forever at his ear, would not be silent. 
“ Ho! ” he jeered. “ There won't be any fragrance 
of heliotrope in the laboratory, my boy, and that 
shovel-jawed Frembach hasn’t eyes like flakes of 
topaz. You’re a most awful idiot, Tommy Cass! 
Why don’t you admit it ? ” 

He met her in the hallway, just as she was going 
out. 

“I — I just heard,” he gulped. “It’s great. I — 




38 


THE GREEN SCARF 


I want to congratulate you! ” 

The touch of her cool hand in his thrilled him 
astonishingly. “ Thank you, Mr. Cass/’ she said 
simply, without a trace of the confusion which had 
overcome him. “I’m only sorry that Mr. Bur¬ 
roughs didn’t give me all I wanted. I — I shall miss 
you.” 

Tommy lay awake that night, thinking about it. 
“ She said she’d miss me,” he repeated at intervals, 
quite foolishly, but with strange contentment. 

The Imp was not at all impressed. “Of course 
she did, you ninny! What else could she have 
said?” 

“ No,” insisted Tommy drowsily. “ She meant 
it. I know she did.” 



CHAPTER IV 


B EFORE reporting to Mr. Frembach next 
morning, Tommy went to his desk in the ad¬ 
vertising department to gather up the variety of 
small belongings which had accumulated there. It 
was a dismal ceremony. Associations clung to 
every pen and rubber band. The sense of farewell 
was poignant. 

He was about half through the unhappy task 
when he became conscious of some one standing be¬ 
hind him. He swung round quickly — to face the 
level gaze of Mr. Burroughs. 

“Oh — good morning!” he stammered, a little 
flustered before the cool stare. 

“ Morning,” answered Mr. Burroughs quietly. 
“ Smoke ? ” He tossed a cigar on the desk. “ Clean¬ 
ing up, eh?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“ It’s a good plan to leave things every night as 
if you weren’t coming back again.” An enigmatic 
smile softened the severity of the older man’s fea¬ 
tures. Without further word, he passed on into 
Miss Manard’s office. 

Tommy surveyed the chaos before him in abase- 

39 


40 


THE GREEN SCARF 


ment. He thought hard. Mr. Burroughs’ brief 
comment made him realize, for the first time in his 
life, it seemed, what a tremendous fundamental or¬ 
der was. He had thought, hitherto, of order and 
seemliness and arrangement as individual affairs; 
like the neatness of one’s person. There had al¬ 
ways been some one to pick up after him. The 
theory of personal responsibility suddenly overpow¬ 
ered him. The succinct phrases of Mr. Burroughs 
had a way of doing that. A single word was like 
a spark to a fuse; there was an instant of reflec¬ 
tion— and then a bright flare of understanding over 
all manner of unrelated things. This idea of leav¬ 
ing one’s desk at night so another fellow could use 
it in the morning — what was it but the Golden 
Rule made commonplace — and useful? More, it 
was the soft keynote to all organization . It was 
the seed from which civilization sprang. 

Tommy was conscious of sudden growth; as if 
old fetters had snapped. Mr. Burroughs was a won¬ 
der! What a leader- 

He attacked the situation with new zest; in ten 
minutes he was ready to move. The wastebasket 
was the gainer by his new understanding. Things 
which had seemed indispensable were revealed as 
mere cluttering obstacles to order. They went into 
the discard along with hampering regrets. He no 
longer felt that he was leaving the advertising de- 




THE GREEN SCARF 


4i 


partment; he was merely enlarging the sphere of 
his experience. He went upstairs to the laboratory 
quite happily. 

Mr. Frembach was intently stirring a vivid green 
liquid in a beaker when Tommy entered, and be¬ 
yond a muttered invitation to “ sit down,” said 
nothing. His appearance was at once commonplace 
and arresting. Age, not less than forty—prob¬ 
ably more. Thick, graying hair, sdrely in need of 
the shears, standing out from his head like the soft 
bristles of a duster. Eyes, large and faded blue. 
An altogether disproportionate nose. A mustache 
entirely obstructive. Beside the ample mouth a 
puckered scar suggested a chronic sneer. The gen¬ 
eral effect was hardly pleasing. 

As if in emphasis, the chemist looked up, frown¬ 
ing. “You’re Cass, I suppose?” 

“ Yes,” said Tommy, rather dismayed by the un¬ 
graciousness of the reception. “Yes, sir! 

“What are you going to do here?” 

“ Learn the first step in paint making, I guess.” 

Mr. Frembach’s long, nervous fingers described 
an endless diagram in the air. “Humph! I sup¬ 
pose I’ve got to do something with you. Know 
an atom from an atomizer?” 

“I — I studied chemistry in college — a little.” 

“That’ll be helpful.” The sarcasm of the com¬ 
ment was obvious. Mr. Frembach pulled a black- 



42 


THE GREEN SCARF 


ened corncob from his pocket and filled it. “Well, 
what do you want to do ? ” He spoke wearily. 

Tommy looked blank, “I — I thought you’d tell 
me that.” 

The chemist stared at him, his brows contracted. 
Then he chuckled dryly. “All right. The crockery 
has to be washed. You might wash it.” 

He went over to a cupboard and outfitted Tommy 
in apron and rubber gloves. “And don’t break any 
more than you have to,” he growled. 

Mr. Frembach, on closer acquaintance, remained 
taciturn, not to say morose, with a sharpness of 
tongue, when he did speak, that sometimes hurt. 
But at heart, Tommy soon found, was a certain 
rough kindliness manifested in the most unexpected 
ways. 

“Come here!” he snapped one afternoon in a 
manner which usually forecasted a reprimand. 
“ I’ve got some theater tickets. You can have ’em.” 

A thought crossed Tommy’s brain. Since the ex¬ 
haustion of the stake given him by his father, he 
had adhered strictly to his original resolve to live 
exclusively on his earnings. During the succeeding 
months consequently his pleasures had been con¬ 
fined to such things as ball games in the parks of a 
Sunday or a rarely extravagant movie. There were 
friends of other days in the city, to be sure, only 
too ready to do him honor. But it was his stub- 



THE GREEN SCARF 


43 


born preference to live his life on the assumption 
that it was bounded, measured, and described by ten 
dollars a week. 

This self-enforced abnegation had not been wholly 
pleasant. There had been moments of weakness. 
One smote him now. It was Friday, and pay day 
on the morrow. He jingled the putative coins in 
his empty pockets. One could economize- 

“ Where are they ? ” he asked, toying with frailty. 

“ In my pocket.” 

“I mean—'parquet, balcony, or what?” 

“You’re a particular somebody, aren’t you? 
Seventh row — downstairs.” 

“Four dollars — umn!” Tommy pondered for 
a moment. A new and daring scheme had risen to 
make temptation stronger. “ I’ll take ’em,” he said 
suddenly. “ Pay you tomorrow.” 

Mr. Frembach swung around. “Pay — noth¬ 
ing ! ” he growled. “ D’you have to have your pres¬ 
ents wrapped up in pink ribbon to recognize ’em?” 

“I beg your pardon,” murmured Tommy. “I 
only thought-” 

“Of course. Everything in the world’s got a 
dollar value nowadays. You can settle it in your 
will.” Mr. Frembach shuffled away, muttering un¬ 
der his breath. Tommy fingered the pasteboards he 
had flung down. 

“Really, I-” he began uncertainly. 






44 


THE GREEN SCARF 


“Oh, get out!” snarled the chemist irritably. 
“ Can’t you see I’m busy ? ” 

During the weeks he had spent imbibing chem¬ 
istry under the harsh tutelage of Mr. Frembach, 
Tommy had found it necessary to make occasional 
descents upon the advertising department. Usually 
they had been visits of frank sociability, explained 
elaborately, in his own mind, by the singular affec¬ 
tion he cherished for Miss Gallery and Mr. Lieber- 
stadt. Now, however, his mission was definite, and 
neither the artist nor the stenographer played any 
part in it. 

He found Miss Manard gazing pensively out of 
the window. When she glanced up at his entrance, 
he fancied he saw shadows of weariness under her 
eyes. 

“Hard day?” he asked sympathetically. There 
was a mountainous heap of papers on her desk. 

An unconscious sigh escaped her. “Rather! I 
loathe catalogue work. Paste — paste — paste. 
Ugh!” 

“Time to quit, isn’t it?” 

She sighed again. “ I was thinking I’d stay down 
tonight.” 

He shook his head vigorously. “ I’ve got a bet¬ 
ter plan. How’d you like to-” The presump¬ 

tion of the idea suddenly halted him, appalled. 
“ Maybe you’d think I was — oh, well — what I was 




THE GREEN SCARF 


45 


going to say’s this: Will you go to the theater 
with me tonight?” He blurted out the proposal, 
blushing furiously. 

She looked up at him, genuinely surprised. 

“ Who — me?” 

“Yes. Why not?” 

“Nothing. Only I-” 

A fear chilled him. “I’ve only got two seats,” 
he said hesitantly. “ Of course, if you want a chap¬ 
eron, I could get-” 

“A chaperon?” She laughed unaffectedly. 

“Hardly that. But truly — I ought to stay down 
here.” She pursed her lips irresolutely. 

“ Oh, come on! ” he urged with boyish enthu¬ 
siasm. “That stuff can wait.” 

“It’s behind schedule already. Really, I-” 

The situation was eloquent of the difference in 
their positions. It made him lose confidence again. 
Nothing of importance would suffer if he let things 
slide. But she — gosh! He had nerve! “I — I 
wish you would,” he muttered weakly. “I — I’d 
be awfully grateful.” He felt like a schoolboy. He 
could have kicked himself for his awkwardness. 

She was not, however, without intuition. She 
was shrewdly aware of much more than he was him¬ 
self. His youthful gaucherie became, under the 
subtle alchemy of her imagination, a singularly af¬ 
fecting charm. He did not guess it, of course; per- 






46 


THE GREEN SCARF 


haps fortunately. No one had ever told him of the 
mother that lurks in the youngest of women. 

“ I haven’t been to the theater in ages! ” she cried 
suddenly. “ In you go! ” With a quick gesture she 
swept the accusing pile of papers into an open draw¬ 
er, and closed it with a bang. 

It is, as the proverb says, but the first step which 
counts. Having taken it, Tommy went the rest of 
the route to destruction with a jauntiness that was 
magnificent. “We’ll have dinner downtown, eh?” 
he tossed off carelessly. The carelessness, accord¬ 
ing to the testimony of his pulse, was largely as¬ 
sumed, and the flush on his cheeks was not normal. 

If Miss Manard had yielded to impulse and in¬ 
stinct, she might have told him things which it were 
better for him not to hear. But being a person of 
natural as well as acquired discretion, she chose 
to hesitate a moment, as if debating conflicting im¬ 
peratives. “Why, yes,” she said presently, the 
pause having had its effect, “ I think that would be 
very nice.” 

“I — I don’t know Chicago very well,” he fal¬ 
tered, when they were on the street. “ Where’d you 
like to go? Blackstone?” 

She laughed. “ Let’s save something to live on 
next week.” 

“Well —where else?” 

“There’s the-” She stopped and surveyed 




THE GREEN SCARF 


47 


him in that open-eyed, frank way of hers. “ I don’t 
know you very well, Mr. Cass,” she said. “Do 
you like music and cabarets and that sort of thing? ” 

Ordinarily Tommy cherished no particular dis¬ 
like for such diversion. But this occasion demanded 
another kind of frame. “No,” he declared fer¬ 
vently. “ I hate it! ” 

“Well, there’s a dear little place on Federal 
Street, behind the Union League Club. Shall we 
try it?” 

“Lead on,” cried Tommy gayly. “If it’s quiet, 
I’m for it.” 

He was disposed to approve of anything appeal¬ 
ing to her. But he found in St. Hubert’s, the lit¬ 
tle restaurant tucked in between blind-eyed ware¬ 
houses, a satisfying charm of its own. The silver, 
gleaming richly against the dull crimson of the car¬ 
pet; the shaded candles; the deft perfection of the 
scarlet-coated waiters that made one think of yew 
trees and clipped hedges and the roast on the side¬ 
board; the low-toned conversation of the other pa¬ 
trons, reflecting the environment, whatever the 
boisterousness of their inclinations; the subdued 
dignity of the stone walls and the rough-hewn oaken 
beams —both, though he guessed it not, simulacra 
— with the long rows of churchwarden pipes hang¬ 
ing from them; and finally the chop, grilled by an 
unsung master belowstairs — the whole an exquisite 




48 


THE GREEN SCARF 


harmony in the gentle art of dining well. 

“By George!” exclaimed Tommy, leaning back 
after a long draft from his tankard of musty ale. 
“ Who’d think to find this in the dirty, noisy, vulgar 
mess of Chicago! ” 

“It’s the home of surprises — Chicago is,” said 
Miss Manard thoughtfully. 

Tommy leaned forward. Presently she raised 
her eyes. He watched the reflections of the lights 
gleaming in their liquid depths. “Won’t you tell 
me about yourself?” he asked softly. “Have you 
always lived here?” 

She smiled at his earnestness. “No, indeed. I 
was raised down State. When my father died and 
I had to shift for myself I came up here. I did 
stenography first — studying decoration at the In¬ 
stitute on the side. Then I was Mr. Burroughs’ 
secretary for a while — until he put me in the ad¬ 
vertising department.” 

“And now you’re the whole works!” Tommy 
was unaffectedly respectful. 

“Oh, hardly that!” she laughed. “Mr. Bur¬ 
roughs is very much behind the throne. I merely 
write copy and run the service end of it; he keeps 
close watch on policy and all that.” 

“ He’s a wonder, isn’t he ? ” 

“ You think so?” Miss Manard’s eyes narrowed. 

“Don’t you?” 



THE GREEN SCARF 


49 


“ He’s an extremely able man,” she said slowly. 
“I — I owe a great deal to him.” Something like 
a sigh escaped her. Tommy felt something un¬ 
phrased behind* her words. He wondered what it 
was. But the faint shadow which* had settled mo¬ 
mentarily over the clearness of her -gaze vanished 
as suddenly as *it had come. 

“Turn about’s fair,” she said quickly. “Sup¬ 
pose you tell me about yourself. Did you come 
into the paint business just because it was a job? 
Or was there something more ? ^Perhaps you studied 
with a special purpose in college?” 

“ I studied the easiest things,” replied Tommy, a 
little sheepish. 

“For instance?” 

“ Chinese history, international law, early Eng¬ 
lish poetry, astronomy, Italian art, forestry ” 

He expected her to laugh at this catalogue of 
futilities. But the shake of her head was oddly 
wistful. “ I envy you,” she said. 

He was astonished. “Good Lord! Why? What 
good will that stuff ever do me ? ” 

“None —practically. But it gives you a back¬ 
ground.” 

“ But look at you! ” he protested. “ It’ll be years 
before I get as far as you have—if I ever do. 

She studied him soberly for a moment. “ What 
do you think of Mr. Frembach?” 



52 . 


THE GREEN SCARF 


Tommy laughed — a little ruefully. “ Crusty as 
last week’s toast, but a marvel in his line.” 

“And Mr. Burroughs?” 

“ I told you.” 

“ You envy them ? ” 

“Why, yes — I think so.” 

“You needn’t, Mr. Cass. You can go farther 
than either of those men.” She paused, fingering 
the contents of the match safe. “ They’re both spe¬ 
cialists. The world’s full of specialists. What it’s 
going to need pretty soon are men to use and direct 
the specialists. Mr. Frembach puts molecules to¬ 
gether and makes them work. Mr. Burroughs is a 
master at hitching up production to distribution and 
making dividends. But they’re not enough. What’s 
needed, Mr. Cass, are specialists in organization, 
men who can hitch up human beings to one another 
and make them work — toward the happiness of so¬ 
ciety. I wonder if you know what I mean ? ” 

Tommy’s frankness was a corporate part of him. 
“No,” he said thoughtfully. “I’m quite sure I 
don’t. Maybe I will—-some day. I’m going to 
try.” 

“That’s all one could ask.” 

He raised his eyes to hers. “You know, Miss 
Manard,” he said abruptly, “it — it comes over me 
with a rush. The difference between you — and 
the others. They know all about what things do. 



THE GREEN SCARF 




But you — you’ve thought out why. I wish you 
knew old Pop Farr, a chap I used to room with. 
He’s like that, too.” 

“ You’re also going to think about the why of 
things, I know.” 

“I’m going to try,” he declared manfully. Then 
some mental safety valve released under pressure 
of unwonted cerebration, and his- imagination fo¬ 
cussed on what his eyes could see. “ If you’ll help 
me,” he added gently. 

Her glance met his with a cool, humorous ap¬ 
praisal that abashed him. “ Hadn’t we better be 
starting for the theater ? ” she asked calmly. 

He glanced at his watch, reddening. “ By 
George, it’s eight-fifteen now. I’ll get a taxi.” 

She extended a restraining hand. “ Don’t be 
silly. And what is the check, please?” 

He stared at her blankly. “ What check?” 

“ The dinner. Let’s see. I had a chop and cof¬ 
fee, and-” She opened her bag and slipped a 

bill toward him. “That covers mine, I think.” 

He leaned back in his chair, his jaw hanging. “ I 
thought / was giving this party,” he whispered 
huskily. “Come, you can’t do this, you know. 
Really, I-” 

She was already rising. “ Don’t you want to be 
friends with me?” she asked quizzically. 

“Why, of course I do. But-” 





52 _ THE GREEN SCARF 


“ Then you must treat me like one.” 

“ But I invited you-” 

“ Listen, Mr. Cass! ” She put her hand on his 
shoulder in what he felt was a distinctly matronly 
way. “ Money’s relative. Between millionaires 
it’s negligible. But the poor don’t pay each other’s 
car fare. My dear boy—forgive me — but I know 
your salary.” 

He protested vehemently. “But I — really, 
I-” 

“ Pure convention, Mr. Cass. And just another 
evidence of man’s sublime egotism.” 

“If I had plenty of money, you wouldn’t ob¬ 
ject?” 

“Probably not. Perhaps at heart, but-” 

“Well, I-” He halted, biting his lip. Ob¬ 

viously Miss Manard believed his income to be re¬ 
stricted to what he received from the Champion 
Paint and Varnish Company. Should he tell her 
the truth? Rather from instinct than reason, he 
decided not. Women were certainly odd fish, he 
told himself with an inward chuckle. Here was one 
member of the species refusing to let him pay for 
her dinner on grounds of “ economic independence.” 
And back in Cleveland was another — his mother — 
who would take to her bed in horror and chagrin did 
she know that her son had permitted his lady guest 
to foot her own score. 







THE GREEN SCARF 


53 


One might calculate the number of years between 
the two — but it would require a comptometer! 

After the theater, on their walk through the 
silent streets, Miss Manard opened Tommy’s spirit¬ 
ual eyes to a number of things which had before 
been but dimly comprehended, if realized at all. 
But he was young, and it was midsummer, and by 
the time they had reached the fragrant stillness of 
the park his normal, instinctive masculinity had re¬ 
asserted itself. Abstractions grew more shadowy. 
His intellectual attention wandered. It was not 
long before he failed to hear what Miss Manard 
was saying in a more exclusive awareness of the 
musical quality of her voice. 

“ Gee, what a moon! ” was his entirely irrelevant 
response to one of her statements concerning the 
right to vote. Her perceptions were not dull, and 
she changed key at once. 

“It’s lovely, isn’t it?” One more acute than 
himself might have detected a certain absence of 
enthusiasm in her tone. 

“ Let’s go by the outer drive,” he suggested. “ It’s 
not much longer.” 

With the intoxication of the night upon him, he 
was conscious of no lack of warmth in her assent. 
For a time they walked in silence, barring his oc¬ 
casionally tremulous admiration for the chiaro- 



54 


THE GREEN SCARF 


oscuro upon the quiet waters of the lake. Ordi¬ 
narily he would have been above such banality, but 
the silver glow from the heavens put a spell on 
words, even as it made magic from the common¬ 
places of street lamp and bench and stone walls. 
There was a mystery about the world, a bright, en¬ 
chanting newness. 

“ Let’s sit down,” he said abruptly as they passed 
a bench. 

She hesitated, her eyes veiled with a troubled be¬ 
wilderment. “Isn’t it rather late?” 

“Just a minute,” he urged. 

She sat down on the edge of the seat, quite 
straight. “Not a second longer.” 

“You don’t know how wonderful this has been,” 
he began raptly, after a silence. 

“Yes?” There was a faint note of interroga¬ 
tion in her voice. 

“I — I’ve never known a girl like you. You — 
you’re wonderful! ” 

She made a sound in her throat — not intelligible. 
He took it for encouragement. After all, she was 
not so very different from the other girls. Not so 
very. His hand stole out and found hers. “You’re 
a wonder!” he repeated huskily. 

For a moment he was timorous. Then confidence 
returned. She had not withdrawn her hand. It 
rested in his — supine — but there. 



THE GREEN SCARF 


55 


“ I-” he began, and paused. She had turned, 

facing him. There was something in her eyes which 
enforced silence. 

“You’ve been popular with girls, haven’t you?” 
she said softly. “You understand them.” 

He essayed ironic denial, but the clarity of her 
gaze forbade. He hung his head, oddly embar¬ 
rassed. 

“I thought so. But haven’t they all been the 
same kind?” 

He became suddenly aware that her hand was 
still in his. He removed his own with a jerk, grate¬ 
ful that the darkness hid the agony of his blushes. 

She sensed his chagrin, and she put her fingers 
lightly on his sleeve. “Don’t misunderstand, dear 
boy. I’m not angry at you.” 

“You — you’re disappointed,” he quavered. 

“ Not with you. Rather with myself. One wears 
a mask so long it seems real — a part of one — and 
then suddenly one’s forced to realize it’s only a 
mask. Don’t you understand ? ” 

“No, I don’t.” As always, he was bluntly hon¬ 
est. 

“ One makes one’s way in the world, taking con¬ 
ditions and asking no quarter, and then, when it’s 
least expected, up pops sex. I hate it! I hate it! 
Oh, Tommy Cass — why couldn’t you let me be a 
person? Why did you have to remind me that I’m 




56 . 


THE GREEN SCARF 


just a woman?” She covered her face with her 
hands. 

“ I’m awfully sorry,” he murmured humbly. His 
bewilderment was abysmal. 

“No, you’re not. You’re sorry because you hurt 
me. But you don’t understand why. You can't A 

“Women are certainly queer,” he muttered. 

She flared at that. “ Oh, yes — always that. But 
if the shoe was on the other foot? Suppose you 
were trying to amount to something in the world. 
Suppose you were walking along with me, talking 
grandly about things that mattered to you, and all 
of a sudden I discovered the moon. What would 
you do — man?” 

“There’s a difference,” muttered Tommy dog- 
gedly. 

“That’s what hurts so,” she cried. “Men have 
made the world to suit themselves.” Her voice sud¬ 
denly became bitter. “You can’t even see the ri¬ 
diculousness of it. You, a mere child in experience 
beside me, can patronize me just because you wear 
trousers! ” 

“I’m not patronizing you,” declared Tommy, ag¬ 
grieved. “ It’s absurd to say so.” 

“But you are. You just don’t like the sound 
of the word. It’s a fact, nevertheless. I’ll be worth 
five of you tomorrow morning. But tonight you 
can hold my hand and feel superior and protective 



THE GREEN SCARF 


57 


—just because you’re a man. You know it’s true.” 

“ I don’t,” he protested weakly. 

She sighed. “The world smokes a pipe and 
shaves. Perhaps I’m a fool not to yield to its ar¬ 
rangements. Why shouldn’t I set my wits to en¬ 
chant some simple-minded lord of creation — when 
that’s what he wants, anyway? Why shouldn’t I? 
Why not let some superior creature stroke my hand 
for the rest of my life instead of slaving my heart 
out to be something you glorious creatures will never 
let me be if you can prevent it?” 

Tommy had regained something of his compo¬ 
sure. He grinned. “You’re too good looking,” he 
murmured. 

She seized upon the phrase. “That’s exactly it. 
If I didn’t care what I looked like, you’d let me 
alone and be hanged to me. But I do care. I do! 
That’s the pity of it. It’s the curse of my sex. We 
all care! ” 

“ I don’t think I understand women,” said Tommy 
weightily, as if the admission were serious. 

Her answer was short: “It’s because they’re 
perfectly simple—and you won’t admit it.” 

When they parted on the steps of her boarding 
house, she held out her hand. “ You’re a nice boy, 
Tommy,” she said, smiling. “I’ve enjoyed the eve¬ 
ning a lot.” 

He blurted out his feeling without reserve: “You 



58 


THE GREEN SCARF 


make me think I’m six years old — and you sixty!” 

On the way to his car, he thought about it. “ She’s 
not the kind you can flirt with. And she doesn’t 
want anybody to fall in love with her. But she 
called me ‘Tommy.’ ” 



CHAPTER V 


T OMMY’S clock failed in its duty next morn¬ 
ing, and he was deplorably late in reaching 
the laboratory. There was not, however, any com¬ 
ment from Frembach. The chemist was engrossed 
in a newspaper. 

"It’s the beginning,” he rumbled, without look¬ 
ing up. 

Tommy peered over his shoulder at the huge, 
black headlines. "Of what?” he queried. 

Frembach flung the newspaper from him, and 
clenched his fists. “It’s come at last! The day! 
The day!” 

"What’s come?” Tommy was puzzled. Why 
should the mere assassination of an Austrian noble¬ 
man be so profoundly moving to the chemist? 

The explanation came in breathless sentences: 
"Listen, boy. It’ll be an excuse to attack Serbia. 
Russia’s bound to intervene. That’ll bring in Ger¬ 
many. If the kaiser mobilizes, the French will re¬ 
member the lost provinces and Sedan. And then, 
old Albion will see her chance. Boy, the Great War 
is here at last!” 

Tommy laughed comfortably. "Oh come! 

59 


6o 


THE GREEN SCARF 


We’ve had those scares before. Look at Morocco, 
and—” 

“ Preliminaries only. Testing out alliances.” 

“Nonsense! People don’t go to war as cold¬ 
bloodedly as that. You forget that the ordinary 
man has more sense than he used to have. This 
war stuff doesn’t give him a thrill any more. Why, 
they’re reasonable beings over there. Look at the 
power of the socialists. They-” 

“Man isn’t a reasonable being, never was,” de¬ 
clared Mr. Frembach bluntly. “ He’s a bundle of 
instincts. Make no mistake. He likes to fight. He’s 
going to.” 

“ But he can’t! Modern warfare’s too expensive. 
Besides it’s silly!” 

“Of course. So’s alcohol — tobacco—life itself, 
if you look at it coldly.” 

“If there’s war, who’ll start it?” 

“Oh, they’ll say Germany, because she’ll strike 
first, and her forty years getting ready. But it’ll 
be spontaneous combustion, I think.” 

“Are you a German?” Tommy put the question 
with some awe. 

“I’m a scientist—citizen of the world.” Frem¬ 
bach laughed disagreeably. “Thus we fool our¬ 
selves. If they start climbing the Alps, I suppose 
I’ll remember I was born a Swiss.” 

“Do you really think there’s going to be war?” 





THE GREEN SCARF 


61 


“ Positive! ” 

“ But dukes have been murdered before and noth¬ 
ing come of it.” 

“Oh, you Americans! You might as well be on 
another planet for all you know of Europe. Will 
you ever wake up ? ” 

“Well, Pm not going to worry till it starts.” 

“ You won’t have long to wait.” 

Tommy laughed. “Gee, you are a pessimist! 
By the way, what shall I do about that oxide? You 
know, the-” 

Frembach shook his head. “I — I can’t think 
about business today. I think I’ll go home.” 

Tommy followed the gaunt figure with wide-open 
eyes. “ Well, of all the bugs! ” he murmured. Then 
a smile formed on his lips. “ Heavy case of katzen- 
jammer prob’ly.” Whistling quite cheerfully, he 
slipped on his blouse and went to work. 

Then came that feverish week of accusation and 
denial, of charge and countercharge, of reverberat¬ 
ing declarations, of amazement chilling into fear, 
as the gray thunderbolt, formed suddenly of apa¬ 
thetic farmers and dull assistant bookkeepers and 
simple-minded professors, hurled itself in a bloody 
surf on Liege, Aerschot, Namur. And almost be¬ 
fore one quite realized the madness that had gripped 
the world, the German guns were growling at the 
gates of Paris. 




62 


THE GREEN SCARF 


Tommy, like the rest of humanity, was stunned. 

One morning he was asked to step down to Mr. 
Burroughs’ office. He found the oak-paneled quar¬ 
ters of the president filled with strangers, oldish 
men, saturnine, smoking cigars grimly. In a corner 
he caught a glimpse of Frembach. 

He guessed that the other men were directors. 
He wondered why he had been summoned. The 
explanation came in Mr. Burroughs’ cool voice: 
“Sit down, Cass. We’re having a little council of 
war over a suggestion of Frembach’s. Thought you 
might be interested.” 

He nodded, wondering the more. He cast a 
glance at Frembach. The chemist was biting his 
nails; he seemed ill at ease. The president went on: 

“ Now then, Mr. Frembach, if you’ll restate your 
proposition for the benefit of the newcomers.” 

“ Y-yes, sir.” The chemist rose awkwardly. “ It’s 
the war, gentlemen. As you perhaps know, we’re 
dependent on Germany for dyes. She isn’t going 
to make dyes for a long time to come. It — it seems 
a great chance for us to get into the dye business.” 

“That’s obvious.” The man who spoke was ro¬ 
tund and florid, with a sneering mouth. Tommy 
took an instant dislike to him. “Why get us here 
to discuss that?” 

Frembach’s lip quivered. Burroughs came to his 
assistance. “The problem’s rather more compli- 



THE GREEN SCARF 


63 


cated than it looks, Mr. Gentles.” 

“ Well, go ahead. Spill it! ” 

“It’s not mere accident that Germany has the 
world’s dye trade. There are several angles to it. 
It’s partly chemical, partly industrial. That is, 
aside from individual scientific ability, the Germans 
have a far better organization than we. Further¬ 
more, the manufacturer over there has the re¬ 
sources of the government behind him.” 

“ I see. Well, what d’ye want to do, Frembach? ” 
Mr. Gentles spoke as if he were delivering a chal¬ 
lenge. 

The chemist looked appealingly at Mr. Bur¬ 
roughs, but the latter’s gesture left the field to him. 
He began haltingly. “ It’s rather hard to ex¬ 
plain -” 

“ Suppose you give us credit for some brains. 
Come on — out with it!” 

“Well, sir, the fact is this: We can’t make dyes 
because we don’t know how. A good many proc¬ 
esses are still German secrets.” 

Mr. Gentles looked pained. “Good grief! I 
thought a chemist nowadays 1 could analyze any¬ 
thing.” 

“N-not quite,” replied Frembach apologetically. 
“But we could do much if — if we had time.” 

“What d’ye mean — time?” 

“That’s what I’m getting at. You see, I’m so 




6 4 


THE GREEN SCARF 


taken up with routine work that I haven’t any op¬ 
portunity for research. I have some ideas. I sug¬ 
gested to Mr. Burroughs that I be allowed to work 
them out.” 

“Yes. Goon.” 

Emboldened by what he took for encouragement, 
Frembach spoke more readily: “ If I could be freed 
of my present duties and allowed to devote all my 
time to working out these ideas, I think-” 

“How long would it take?” A gentleman, 
hitherto silent, put the question. 

“That’s hard to say,” replied Frembach, tugging 
at his mustache. 

Mr. Gentles took up the catechism. “ Suppose we 
do let you go to this. What are the odds of your 
coming through with something worth while?” 

“ That’s a difficult question to answer. I think — 
I — er — I should say the chances were—well — 
quite good.” 

“But not certain?” 

“Oh, no! Not at all.” 

“ In other words, we might make a considerable 
investment in your time and have nothing to show 
for it?” 

Mr. Frembach fidgeted uncomfortably. “Yes, 
that might be the outcome, of course. But-” 

“On the other hand, if you did land something 
big, something that would make you famous, what’d 





THE GREEN SCARF 


65 


stop you from going to some one else with it?” 

The query struck Tommy as gratuitously insult¬ 
ing. He hoped Frembach would resent it. But the 
chemist merely shrugged his shoulders. “ Nothing 
but my word,” he said simply. 

“ No offense, Frembach,” growled Mr. Gentles in 
some compunction. “That’s only business, you 
know. We’ve got to copper our bets when we can. 
Well, Burroughs. What do you think of the 
scheme ? ” 

“I thought it of sufficient importance to justify 
my calling you here,” replied the president quietly. 
It was apparent that he cherished no vast regard 
for Mr. Gentles. 

“What do the rest of you think about it?” 

Tommy found the debate which followed rather 
bewildering. At first he was disposed to listen 
closely and respectfully. Presently the disturbing 
truth dawned upon him that even among these neat 
gentlemen there was loose thinking, misinformation 
unrealized, even flippancy, finally a plain boredom. 
It was clear that they were dominated by Mr. Gen¬ 
tles, that they dodged responsibility in favor of Mr. 
Burroughs. He caught himself yawning. The 
president turned to him abruptly: 

“Well, Cass, you understand the situation?” 

“Yes, sir. I think so.” 

“ What’s your opinion ? ” 



66 


THE GREEN SCARF 


A sudden silence settled on the group. Tommy 
was abashed. “I— I don’t know, sir.” 

“ No opinion? ” 

The tone irritated. It awakened defiance. 
“ No.” 

“ You’re candid, at least.” The phrase was ut¬ 
tered bluntly. But there was a suggestion of a 
twinkle in the speaker’s eyes. Then, with a curt 
nod, he indicated dismissal. Tommy left the of¬ 
fice more interrogative than he had entered it. It 
was difficult to guess why he had been asked to take 
part, even as a listener, in the discussion. 

Frembach joined him in the laboratory a few 
minutes later. He shuffled in wearily, dejection 
manifest on his face. “You didn’t give me much 
of a boost,” he complained apathetically. 

Tommy felt placed on the defensive. “I didn’t 
have much of a chance.” 

“ I suppose not. One can’t argue with intellects 
like Gentles’.” 

“They — they turned you down?” 

Frembach nodded. “Of course.” 

“I’m awfully sorry.” 

“Are you? Why?” 

The question was disconcerting. “Why, I hate 
to see a man lose his chance.” 

“They’ll lose more than I will,” was the grim 
response, accompanied by a vicious clattering of 



THE GREEN SCARF 


67 


glassware. “ What blind stupidity! ” 

Tommy voiced his sympathy: “It’s a darned 
shame! ” 

Frembach wheeled, and his voice trembled with 
anger: “No wonder the Germans talk about civi¬ 
lizing the rest of us. They’re right. Gentles is a 
fine type for you! You’d have to civilize him with 
a club. No imagination, no foresight, no breadth. 
Just a fat, squealing hog for profits. Refuses to 
stake me for fear somebody else’ll get the benefit. 
Faugh!” 

“How did Burroughs feel about it?” 

“On the fence — at first. Then he flopped. 
Thought the war couldn’t last very long, anyhow. 
Even if I did succeed in turning up anything, the 
Germans would beat us on price. No imagination. 
No god but dividends.” 

Tommy felt his captain slurred. “You can’t 
blame him for that, can you?” 

“ Perhaps not. That’s what he’s hired for. He’s 
got to keep an eye on his bosses. My Lord, think 
of having Gentles for a boss! It makes a chap wish 
he was a German. Those fellows appreciate imagi¬ 
nation, they do!” 

“ It certainly is a shame! ” Tommy was thought¬ 
ful for a moment. “ Strange they wouldn’t risk the 
little you ask.” 

Frembach brought his fist down on the counter. 



68 


THE GREEN SCARF 


“ Why, Cass, they’re crazy! They don’t realize that 
dyes are going to be simply ungettable in a few 
months.” He became quite passionate about it. 
“The textile makers are going to weep on our 
shoulders. They’ll give any price asked. The field 
will bubble with impossible substitutes. But mark 
my words! The Germans didn’t learn how to make 
dyes overnight — and neither can we! It took them 
years to gain their knowledge.” 

“Colors will be hard to get, too, won’t they?” 

“Sure. Chemicals of all sorts. We’re going to 
find out what Germany means in the modern world 
all right. You watch.” 

“Do you really think the war’s going to last 
through the summer ? ” 

“Summer? Merciful heavens, boy, it may last 
five years! ” 

“ No!” 

“They thought your own rebellion was a six 
weeks’ affair. But it wasn’t. This thing’s been 
cooking a long time. And it’s going to take a long 
time to cool.” 

“ Gee, you’re a pessimist, Frembach.” 

“I’m a — oh, well, what’s the use of gassing 
about it? Let’s get back to work.” A black scowl 
intensified the natural unloveliness of his face, but 
Tommy, watching him, was filled with sympathy. 
It was pretty hard not to be able to do what one 



THE GREEN SCARF 


69 


was so keen about, particularly when it looked so 
sensible. 

Tommy did very little work that morning, but 
he thought a great deal. After luncheon he went 
down to see Mr. Burroughs. 

As was like him, he came to the point directly. 
“I guess it’s none of my business,” he began, “but 
I’ve been talking it over with Mr. Frembach, and 
I — well, we think it would be a good thing to lay 
in a big stock of raw color. You’ve prob’ly thought 
of it, but in case you hadn’t I—J just thought I’d 
tell you. Color’s going to be hard to get.” 

The president looked up from his desk. “ Much 
obliged for the suggestion,” he said gravely. Then 
a tolerant smile touched the corners of his mouth. 
“Frembach’s a chemist, Cass. By the time we’ve 
exhausted our present stock, the war will be over.” 

“ But he thinks it’ll last five years, maybe.” 

“ He’s a chemist — not an economist. Five years, 
eh ? Why, my boy, it can’t last five months. There 
isn’t enough money on the planet to pay the bill. 
Germany’s got everything against her. Money talks, 
you know.” 

“ But just to be on the safe side-” 

“You don’t understand finance, Cass. To load 
up with color, on the possibility of a tight market, 
would be to tie up working capital unjustifiably. It 
would simply eat its head off.” 




;o 


THE GREEN SCARF 


“ I guess maybe that’s so. But I-” 

Mr. Burroughs swung back to his desk. “ Thanks 
• again, Cass. Glad to see you’re interested.” 

Tommy was more interested than any one knew. 
He went slowly back to the laboratory, his smooth 
young forehead wrinkled in meditation. 

He recalled a talk with his father on the sub¬ 
ject of speculation. The exact words stood in his 
memory. “All business is a gamble, but some is 
more of a gamble than others. The man who wins 
has to gamble, but he doesn’t play the stock mar¬ 
ket—except for excitement.” 

There had been more. It all came to the same 
thing. When wisdom gambled it chose a game it 
knew. 

The thought culminated in a question to Frem- 
bach: “ Colors aren’t likely to go any lower ? ” 

“You won’t be able to buy ’em at any price, I 
tell you.” 

“ Suppose a chap bought up all the color he could 
get at present prices ? ” 

“He’d double his money in six months. Or 
treble it.” 

“ Humn! ” Tommy was thinking of an indulgent 
aunt, who, on his twenty-first birthday, had passed 
on to him a portion of her surplus wealth. “ Humn! 
Do you happen to know what Tonawanda Light 
and Power fours are worth?” he asked suddenly. 




THE GREEN SCARF 


21 


“ Of course not. Why?” 

“Oh, nothing. I was just wondering. I — er — 
color's likely to go up pretty fast, don't you think?” 

“Fast? It's climbing every minute.'' 

Tommy reached for his hat. “ If you don’t mind, 
I — er — I've got an engagement downtown this 
afternoon.” 

“ Go ahead. I won’t be lonesome.” 

Trying hard not to break into a run, Tommy went 
out. His heart was singing with suppressed ex¬ 
citement. He felt extraordinarily adventurous. 

Downtown, he first visited the safety deposit 
vaults, from his own portion of which he removed 
a long, fat envelope. Then he progressed upstairs 
to the bond department, where, striving to seem 
quite casual, he had a talk with the manager. There 
was a brisk telephoning hither and yon, and pres¬ 
ently he made his way to the third floor, and the 
receiving teller. The latter’s eye brows elevated at 
what came over the counter to him. 

His banking operations completed, Tommy sal¬ 
lied forth on the second phase of his plan. This 
proved rather more difficult than he had anticipated, 
due largely to the reluctance of the various persons 
he visited to believe that he was in earnest. But 
when at last he returned to his boarding house, hot 
and covered with dusty perspiration, he bore tri¬ 
umphantly in his pocket sundry documents evidenc- 



72 


THE GREEN SCARF 


ing his possession of something over two thousand 
dollars’ worth of coloring matter, employed in the 
manufacture of paints. 

He grinned at his reflection in the mirror. 
“ Who’d ’a’ thought you’d come to this! ” he mur¬ 
mured. 

He found Frembach intent upon the newspaper 
when he came in next morning. It occurred to 
him that this unwonted indifference to duty had 
become rather marked. There was a certain list¬ 
lessness manifest. He yawned as Tommy came in. 

“Up late last night?” 

“Not particularly.” 

“You look tired.” 

“So? Well, I’m not!” He leaped to his feet 
with an oath. “I’m bored, Cass. Bored to death. 
The heart’s gone out of things. I’ve got to quit 
reading about this confounded war. It—it — oh, 
hang it, it keeps me thinking! ” 

“ It’s too bad! ” 

“ Lord — if they could only see what they’ll miss! 
Some one else will get the jump on them sure. I 
met a chap with Piggott & Kunz yesterday, Joe 
Wormser. They’re going after the dye proposi¬ 
tion— hard. The joke of it is, Wormser doesn’t 
know any more about chemistry than you do.” He 
laughed bitterly. 

A small action not infrequently precipitates a vast 



THE GREEN SCARF 


73 


amount of thought. Tommy’s audacious plunge 
into speculation had awakened all sorts of mental 
processes. One taste of the flavor of finance intoxi¬ 
cated him. It made the preposterous seem quite 
logical. 

“Why don’t you go it on your own hook?” he 
asked calmly. “Just as I have,” he was tempted 
to add. 

Frembach scowled. “Who’d buy my bread and 
butter ? ” 

“ Is that the only difficulty? ” Tommy spoke with 
the easy dignity of affluence. 

“Isn’t it enough?” 

“ Money’s always to be had.” The consciousness 
of recent achievement lent Tommy a singular con¬ 
fidence, reflected in the, one might almost say, 
grandiloquence of his manner. “What would it 
take?” His pencil was out and poised. 

Frembach eyed him in almost comic perplexity. 
“What d’ye mean?” 

“First—all necessary equipment furnished.” 

“While you’re dreaming you might as well add 
the unnecessary, too. It don’t cost any more—to 
dream it.” 

“All right— necessary and unnecessary. Now, 
then, how little could you live on?” 

“A loaf of bread and a jug of wine — 'almost 
nothing.” 




74 


THE GREEN SCARF 


“Well — say thirty a week?” 

“ Like a king! ” 

Tommy figured rapidly, a curiously new aspect 
of maturity on his boyish features. “ Say fifteen 
hundred dollars salary, two thousand dollars equip¬ 
ment, incidentals, five hundred dollars- Would 

four thousand dollars carry you for a year?” 

Frembach licked the long ends of his mustache. 
“ Say, what are you trying to do to me ? ” 

“I’m being extrepiely practical,” said Tommy 
earnestly. “Burroughs and the rest won’t gamble 
on this thing, but I’ve come to the conclusion that 
they’re passing up a good thing. So I think I’ll 
gamble myself.” 

“Goon. This is — marvelous!” 

“ Throw up your job here, get a laboratory some¬ 
where, and go to it. You’ll have nothing on your 
mind, and nobody to bother you.” 

Frembach threw back his head and laughed trem¬ 
ulously. “ Have you gone absolutely crazy, young 
fellow?” 

“Not a bit. Why?” 

“Who’s the good fairy? You?” 

“Don’t worry about that, old top. The money 
end of it’ll be taken care of all right.” 

The chemist sobered, and the light of suspicion 
flickered in his pale-blue eyes. “ I may be 'a little 
touched myself,” he snapped sarcastically, “but I’m 




THE GREEN SCARF 


75 


not that big a fool.” 

“Who said you were?” 

“ Would any but a complete imbecile throw up 
a perfectly good job for a pipe dream like you’re 
putting up?” 

“It’s no pipe dream. It’s-” 

“Oh, come out of it, lad!” Irritation showed in 
the chemist’s tone. “ It’s all right to make fun of 
me, if it gives you pleasure. But enough’s enough.” 

“ I mean every word of it; I swear I do! ” 

“Aw — rats!” Frembach was nearing anger. 

Tommy reflected. “I’ll be honest with you,” he 
said bluntly. “I haven’t a cent myself.” 

“Oh, really?” 

Ignoring the sarcasm, he went on: “ But I think 
I can get it.” 

Frembach smiled, as one humors a madman. 
“Oh, yes, of course.” 

Tommy’s jaw protruded aggressively. “You 
think I’m kidding you—‘but I’m not. I’m putting 
a straight business proposition up to you. If enough 
money’s banked to carry you for a year — maybe 
longer — and you’re given a contract signed by a 
responsible party, will you take a crack at it? 

“Will a duck swim?” answered Frembach dryly. 
Then he gave Tommy a shrewd scrutiny. “If 
you’re making a monkey of me, Cass, 111 111 
strangle you! ” 




76 


THE GREEN SCARF 


“ Understand, I’m not promising anything. I’m 
merely stating a possibility.” 

“You’re sure there’s a possibility?” 

“ No, I’m not sure. But I think so.” 

Frembach took out his old pipe. “ If you can put 
this over, Cass,” he said soberly, “you’ll never re¬ 
gret it; I swear to God you won’t!” 

Tommy extended his hand. “I’ll put it over — 
or be disappointed in the best friend I’ve got.” 

With which cryptic remark he went to his desk 
to compose a very remarkable letter. 

When Tommy’s father received that letter he was 
so amazed that he had to go out for a walk to com¬ 
pose himself. Then he read it again—and laughed 
till the tears came. He called in the vice presi¬ 
dent and the trust officer to share his delight. 

“Look at his language!” he gurgled. “Just out 
of college, too. The — the nerve of him!” 

Mr. Gaunt, the trust officer, who was unexcep- 
tionably matter-of-fact, smiled incredulously. “Are 
you going to grant his request?” 

“Egad!” roared Mr. Cass. “What else can I 
do ? He’s got me on three counts — as a charitable 
old gentleman fond of aiding the deserving poor, 
as a patron of the arts and sciences, and — and as 
his own best friend. And then he winds up with a 
casual remark that it’s a gilt-edged investment. 
What d’ye make of it, Gaunt?” 



THE GREEN SCARF 


77 


The trust officer coughed in deprecation. 
“Really I — er — that’s hardly in my line, you 
know. I — I really don’t know what to say.” 

“Egad — no more do I. But the boy seems to 
have no doubts.” He chuckled delightedly. “ The 
young rascal! He even throws my own words up 
at me. He quotes me on speculation. Well, well — 
I suppose there’s no better way to learn to use a 
knife than to start whittling.” He pressed a but¬ 
ton on his desk, summoning his secretary. “Miss 
McKee, a letter to my son-” 

Tommy had to read the characteristically epi¬ 
grammatic response from his father three times be¬ 
fore its significance reached him. Then he rushed 
over to Frembach, waving it wildly in the air. 

“He’s never gone back on me yet!” he shouted. 

The chemist straightened up from the steaming 
retort. “What’s the matter now?” he demanded 
crossly. 

“Everything’s lovely!” cried Tommy exultantly. 
“ The thing goes through.” 

“You mean-” 

“Read it.” 

The old chemist took the document Tommy held 
out to him and read it slowly. His hand trembled. 
When he looked up there was something glistening 
in his eyes. “I — I can’t believe it!” he whispered. 

“Write your own contract!” cried Tommy. 






78 


THE GREEN SCARF 


The reply was characteristic: “ Contract be 

hanged! If a rich man wants to soak you, no con¬ 
tract’s going to stop him. I — I’ll leave that to you.” 

“ Not a word about this, Frembach — to any one.” 

The chemist seemed dazed. “To think Fve had 
a millionaire beside me all this time. I — I had no 
idea! ” 

“ Oh, bunkalorum! Dad’s pretty well fixed, I 
guess, but you needn’t tell anybody about it.” 

Frembach moistened his dry lips. “You don’t 
know what this means to me; you can’t possibly.” 
A strange, new fire burned in the dull eyes. The 
listlessness had vanished. He even broke into a 
tuneless whistle. “It — it’s a miracle!” 

That afternoon Tommy was told that Mr. Bur¬ 
roughs desired to see him. He went downstairs 
rather reluctantly, fearful that what he had done 
had been discovered. 

Apparently, however, Mr. Burroughs had no 
inkling of the truth. He merely said: “Frem- 
bach’s leaving us.” His cold gray eyes roved search- 
ingly over Tommy’s features. 

Tommy’s disarming candor saved him: “Yes. 
He told me.” 

“ Know why ? ” The question came abruptly. 

“Why — no, sir.” It was hard to lie. But one 
learned many things in business. 

“Any idea?” 



THE GREEN SCARF 


79 


“I — I think he’s going to take a rest.” 

“ He didn’t seem very tired last time I saw him.” 
The words were put as a statement, but the interro¬ 
gation in them was plain. 

Tommy merely shrugged his shoulders, and re¬ 
mained silent. He was wise enough to guess that 
if he allowed himself to be drawn into discussion 
he was lost. 

“Hum! Learned much chemistry?” 

“ Some.” 

“That’s all I expected. Well, this’ll be a good 
time to change.” He was silent for a moment, his 
fingers tapping rhythmically on the desk. “ Report 
Monday to Mr. Kloepke in the shop.” 

“Yes, sir.” Tommy took it that the interview 
was ended, and rose. He was thankful that his 
secret remained undisclosed. 

He was almost to the door when Mr. Burroughs’ 
cool voice halted him: “Just a moment, Cass. You 
have no objection to hard work, I hope — dirty 
work?” 

“Why, no, sir — none at all.” 

“That’s good. You’ll get a lot of it.” 



CHAPTER VI 


W HEN Tommy reported to Mr. Kloepke, the 
factory superintendent, on Monday morn¬ 
ing, he really thought he was ready for “ anything.” 
Five minutes’ conversation, however, made clear 
that his readiness was abstract. 

The actuality of overalls, of being given a num¬ 
ber and shown the time clock, upon which he was 
to register three times a day, and finally of being 
placed before a crashing, growling machine to feed 
greasy little disks of metal into its insatiable throat 
— these things rather shocked. 

The press he was delegated to feed was one of 
a clamorous battery, each tended by a youth of 
about his own age. No one, he soon found, paid 
the slightest attention to him, and the insistent hun¬ 
ger of the machine prevented his paying much at¬ 
tention to any one else. 

Novelty made the morning pass quickly. At noon 
he went across the street to the little restaurant he 
had been accustomed to patronize hitherto. He 
looked around for companions of the shop. There 
were none to be seen. There were stenographers, 
clerks, office boys, people he knew — but no over- 
80 


THE GREEN SCARF 


81 


alls. Next day, he resolved, he would bring his 
lunch in a tin box. He liked to do things thor¬ 
oughly. 

The afternoon dragged somewhat. Monotony 
raised its disagreeable head. Unfamiliar muscles 
began to ache vaguely. When the five-o’clock whis¬ 
tle blew he was completely exhausted. He smiled 
to think of it. All done up—with work that girls 
did! And the agony of his flayed fingers! 

That night the everlasting pound of the press and 
the chink of the metal falling into the trays made 
his sleep restive. He was tired in the morning, and 
he faced the future gloomily. At the factory, he 
fell into the line of workers, winding up to the 
time clock, almost sullenly. He was acutely con¬ 
scious of the dinner box at his side. No one spoke 
to him. Even when he had donned his overalls, 
and again stood before the crunching jaws of his 
machine, his presence was ignored. The other boys 
on the row talked to each other; they merely glanced 
at him indifferently. 

The tedious prospect of feeding bits of tin all day 
long sickened him. The same thing tomorrow and 
the next day and the day after. A kind of panic 
gripped him. Would the greasy filth ground into 
his cracked finger tips poison him? The cords in 
his neck ached dully. He tried to relax. One can 
get used to anything, he whispered fiercely. His 



82 


THE GREEN SCARF 


jaw set. If others stood it, he could. 

Novelty vanished utterly. But something else 
took its place. Vanity, perhaps. These other lads 
beat him two to one. There was his way of doing 
it — and better ways. Even this job revealed the 
possibilities of a game. He glanced at the clock. 
So — pretty awkward! If one tilted the piles of 
disks a trifle, he got a purchase; it made for speed. 
He tried it. The clock’s message a minute later was 
encouraging. He was doing better. Then his lips 
compressed. By George, he’d be the best one there! 

He had conceived a dislike for the great press. 
It was a monster without heart, repeating, with 
every champ of its jaws, its insistence upon his ig¬ 
nominy. It was his master rather than his servant. 
Suddenly it occurred to him that it was neither; 
it was his companion in a not uninteresting sport. 
He was surprised how quickly the time passed to the 
noon whistle. 

He followed the other workers from his aisle out 
to the yard, and sat down with them. They were 
an ill-mannered lot, he decided presently. They 
spoke to him, and replied briefly to his advances, 
but there was no cordiality; absolutely none. He 
made deliberate efforts to win them; they remained 
unresponsive. 

The thing hurt and puzzled him. Never before 
had strangers repelled him. On the contrary. 



THE GREEN SCARF 


83 


Gradually a strange quality of mistrust in their 
manner penetrated to him. It troubled him im¬ 
mensely. 

Day after day he renewed his efforts — almost 
desperately. But success was small. They called 
him by name. They were quite civil — even, at 
times, curiously respectful. But they contrived 
clearly to make him understand that he was not one 
of them. And he wanted to be one of them. He 
had never before been an outsider. It hurt. 

Days succeeded days colorlessly, until they had 
rolled into weeks. He had become an expert at the 
stamp press. No one had to tell him; he knew it 
himself, and the clock was corroboration. The 
strangeness in the overalls and the number and the 
time clock had gone, and his hands were leathery. 
But the wall between himself and the others was still 
unpenetrated. It shut him off, not alone from 
those near at hand, but from all the rest. Yet the 
whole plant seemed to know him — or about him. 
Girls giggled as he passed. Always there was a 
feeling of furtive glances behind his back. And 
when, doggedly bent on breaking down this exas¬ 
perating, unspoken hostility, he approached little 
groups of workers, conversation immediately be¬ 
came halting, coldly civil. 

He recalled a chap in college — ugh! a hopeless 
bird — who had gone out of his head brooding over 



8 4 


THE GREEN SCARF 


his unpopularity. At the time the thing had been 
incomprehensible, a little ridiculous. But it was 
clearer now. For the first time in his life Tommy 
began really to lose confidence in himself. 

Then one afternoon his brooding sense of hurt 
was split like a taut skin, and understanding en¬ 
tered. 

His coat under his arm, for it was rather warm, 
he was walking, sullen and alone, through the gate, 
the day’s work ended. 

Usually there were groups of people standing 
about, gossiping or waiting for some one. But this 
afternoon the groups had coalesced in one, quite 
blocking egress. From its center came hot voices, 
some good-humored wrangling, bursts of rough 
laughter. 

“What’s up?” asked Tommy of a grinning lad 
who had just emerged from the press. 

“Aw, Red Dolan’s drunk again,” laughed the boy, 
as if it were small cause for such an uproar. 

Curious, Tommy thrust his way into the surging 
throng. Over the tossing heads he caught glimpses 
of a carroty shock of hair, hatless, and underneath 
a moist red face, the lips moving fiercely. That Mr. 
Dolan was engaged in a bibulous denunciation of 
some one or something, much to the enjoyment of 
his auditors, was easily apparent. 

A lane opened suddenly among the moving heads. 



THE GREEN SCARF 


85 


and Tommy found his eyes looking directly into 
those of the orator. An instant later he experienced 
the sensation which comes to one in peculiarly un¬ 
pleasant nightmares — of having the curtain rise 
without warning, disclosing one — usually en des¬ 
habille — alone on the stage of a vast auditorium. 

“There he is — the limb!” cried Mr. Dolan fe¬ 
rociously. 

The crowd melted away to either side as if by 
magic. Panic-stricken, Tommy realized that the 
blunt forefinger of the speaker was leveled directly 
at himself. A sudden hush fell on the gathering. 
His jaw hung limp with stupefaction. Never had 
he been so painfully bewildered. Then he found 
his voice. 

“ What's the matter with me?” he queried almost 
plaintively. 

In lumbering bounds, Mr. Dolan advanced. A 
huge fist wagged menacingly under his startled nose. 

“Ye think you're as smart as th' ould wan him¬ 
self,” roared the fiery-eyed giant. “But I know ye 
fer what yez are! ” 

Tommy felt like laughing at the absurdity of the 
situation. “ Maybe you’ll pass your information on 
to me?” he suggested coolly. 

Dolan turned to the bystanders. “ Listen to the 
- He’s tryin' to keep up th' bluff.” 

Tommy grew immensely irritated. “With all 




86 


THE GREEN SCARF 


your language you may say something if you aren’t 
careful.” 

“ By the holy! Th’ young sneak’s trying to kid 
me! ” 

Tommy tossed his coat on the ground and stepped 
forward. “When you say things like that, don’t 
say ’em to me,” he rapped out icily. 

Dolan’s curses were incoherent, but fervid. “ I’ll 
not be afther choosin’ av me words on any white- 
livered, pussy-footed spy!” he bellowed. “ Go back, 
ye scut, to th’ slob as sent ye. Go-” 

“Yes. Goon. What else?” 

“ Go back, I say. Go on, wid yer white face an’ 
yer shiny collar. Go tell Burroughs what I’m sayin’ 
to ye. Go tell th’ dirthy little-” 

He said no more just then. With a leap like the 
snap of a spring, Tommy was upon him. His quick 
blow of defense was stopped in mid-air, with steely 
fingers gripping his thick red wrist like the jaws of 
a vise. 

There was a sudden wrench, and as if a safe had 
dropped upon him, the big man was on his knees, 
squealing incoherently with pain. “ Leggo me arm! 
Yer breakin’th’bone! Ow-w-w!” 

Tommy relaxed his hold slightly. “I’ll break 
every bone in your fat hide before I’m through!” 
was his cheerful assurance. “Now, then, you big 
stiff, what did you mean by calling me a spy ? ” 




THE GREEN SCARF 


87 


The unhappy wretch, on his knees, muttered un¬ 
intelligibly. But a sharp pressure of the strong 
fingers gripping his wrist clarified his speech won¬ 
derfully. “I take it back!” he groaned in agony. 
“ I take it all back. Ow — it’s killin’ me y’ are! ” 

“And you’re taking back what you said about Mr. 
Burroughs, too.” A slight twist, by way of em¬ 
phasis, and the howls of pain from the writhing 
victim redoubled. 

“Ev’ryword. Ow — ow-” 

“You aren’t fit to lick his shoes, are you?” 

“The saints fergive me — I’m not! Oh — gee, 
mister! Be careful, for the love o’ Heaven. 
You’ll-” 

Tommy’s fingers opened, and a sudden thrust of 
his foot sent Mr. Dolan sprawling profanely in the 
dust. “When you’re sober, if you want any more, 
come and tell me.” 

Then he turned and surveyed the astonished on¬ 
lookers. “You’re a fine bunch of cattle!” he said 
contemptuously. “And it wouldn’t take a spy to 
find it out, either!” He picked up his coat and 
dusted it. Looking straight ahead, he pushed 
through the gaping throng, and strode off down the 
street, his retreating shoulders oddly expressive of 
the wrath in his soul. 

Gradually, however, peace came to him. At least, 
he now understood the cold reserve, the giggles, 





88 


THE GREEN SCARF 


the failure to get under the skins of his fellow 
workers. And what was more, he began presently 
to sympathize with it all. A spy was a detestable 
thing. One might find him useful, but one could 
not possibly make him admirable. And then aston¬ 
ishment gripped him. He had never dreamed that 
such things were. 

As he pondered, he saw Burroughs in a new light. 
And also he saw business differently. The splendid 
machine, with its efficiency, its able captains and 
lieutenants, its service to humanity and progress, 
was all a kind of sham. The office upstairs, with 
its polished mahogany and its trim, competent occu¬ 
pants, was but the gilded vestibule to a Bluebeard’s 
palace. Decaying, poisonous things lurked below, 
locked out of sight. The whole edifice was built 
upon hate and treachery and things one didn’t like 
to think about. 

It flashed over Tommy that he had gone a great 
way in understanding. Dolan’s abuse had revealed 
a sordid illiberalism whose existence he had never 
even suspected. The high lights of commerce, the 
dignity and competence “ upstairs,” had fired him 
with enthusiasm. But these shadows below engulfed 
him in their gloom. 

And then he laughed, catching his breath a lit¬ 
tle. A fine sort of spy he was — not even aware 
that spies existed. 



THE GREEN SCARF 


89 


Tommy found a new atmosphere when he reached 
the plant next morning. The indefinable furtiveness 
was gone. Men eyed him without sulleness, and 
when he passed the girls they ceased speaking as be¬ 
fore, but there was no giggling. Yet he had an un¬ 
easy sense that he was being discussed. A strange 
conviction grew upon him. There was a tension 
in the air, a spirit of waiting, of fear. 

He struggled to grasp what was going on behind 
that intangible wall. His work suffered in conse¬ 
quence. That did not trouble him. He knew that 
presently he could not work at all unless this 
wretched mist of reserve were dissipated. 

At noon he sought out an old mechanic, a quiet 
man known only to him as Jake. In the old man’s 
shrewd eyes he had long felt a kind of mild inter¬ 
rogation, a look which seemed to beckon. 

“Jake,” he said with characteristic directness, “ I 
can’t stand this any longer. Just what did Dolan 
mean by calling me a spy?” 

The reply came slowly, after the thorough mas¬ 
tication of a large pickle: “Lots of ’em thought 
so.” 

“Did you?” 

The old man shrugged his shoulders. “I 
wouldn’t care. I’ve got nothin’ to hide.” 

Tommy was exasperated. “That’s not the point. 
What makes you think of spies at all? 



§o 


THE GREEN SCARF 


“We’ve had ’em before.” 

“Oh!” 

“You can’t blame the boys for hatin’ it.” 

Tommy flared. “Hate it? I should say not! 
I’d hate it myself. Who wouldn’t?” 

“Well, there ye are.” 

“But I can’t understand. What are spies for, 
anyway ? ” 

The old mechanic yawned. “ Great weather fer 
October, ain’t it ? ” 

Tommy seized him by the shoulder. “ Please, 
Jake,” he begged. “ I don’t want to be held off like 
this. Won’t you tell me what it all means?” 

Jake’s little eyes twinkled shrewdly. “Well,” 
he said meditatively, “I’ve thought all along you 
were a square lad.” 

“I try to be, Jake, but-” 

“ Listen, kid. I don’t know what Burroughs put 
you in the shop for, an’ I don’t much care. Maybe 
you don’t know. But he’s put white shirts like you 
in before. An’ some as wasn’t white shirts — damn 
’em!” He spat vindictively. “They-” 

“But what for?” 

“I’m tellin’ ye. The lads here have a leanin’ 
toward organizing. Th’ old man upstairs, he wants 
to head it off. That’s all.” 

“Did you ever prove that any of those fellows 
were — were what you thought they were?” 





THE GREEN SCARF 


9i 


The old man spoke harshly: “Prove it? No. 
But any lad as talked much about unions an’ that 
sort o’ thing, he always got his time mighty sud- 
den.” 

“ Do they still think I’m that sort ? ” 

Jake studied him narrowly. “They’re waitin’,” 
he said softly. 

“Waiting? For what?” 

The old man hesitated. “ I’m trustin’ ye, kid.” 

“Gosh, I hope somebody will!” Tommy spoke 
from the heart. One could not possibly doubt it. 

“They’re waitin’ to see—what happens to Do¬ 
lan.” 

“Oh — I see!” The whistle blew just then. 
“You can pass the word, Jake, that if Dolan wants 
another licking he can certainly have it. But — I 
settle my troubles myself! ” 

The old man rose stiffly, and his eyes met 
Tommy’s. “If you’re lyin’ to me, son, I — I’ll be 
awful disapp’inted,” he said simply. 

That afternoon Tommy received a summons to 
headquarters. He went up, wondering. The presi¬ 
dent’s secretary was in the office when he entered, 
but at a nod from Mr. Burroughs she went out 
quietly. Prearrangement seemed evident. 

“Sit down, Cass. I just wanted to thank you 
for your attention to Dolan.” 

Tommy’s eyebrows rose sharply. “You—you 



92 


THE GREEN SCARF 


heard about that?” he inquired. 

Mr. Burroughs smiled inscrutably. “I hear a 
good deal.” 

“He was drunk, sir. He — he wasn’t himself.” 
Tommy was as palliative as if he spoke for himself. 

“There’s an old Latin proverb, Cass—‘truth in 
liquor.’ The man was very much himself. He — 
he’s been discharged.” 

“Oh, no!” Tommy sprang from his chair, the 
picture of consternation. “Oh, please-” 

Mr. Burroughs was frankly surprised. “Why 
not? ” 

“Oh—because. You—you don’t understand, 
sir. But really-” 

“The man was a trouble maker. We can’t have 
that sort around.” 

There was a complacent pragmatism in the words 
which irritated. It called forth a brusque interro¬ 
gation: “Mr. Burroughs — what did you put me 
in the factory for?” 

“Why do you ask?” 

“I want to know.” 

“Well — for the same reason I put you in the 
other places. I like you. I see a future ahead for 
you. You have ability, I think. I wanted you to 
get a bird’s-eye view of the whole business before 
you specialized.” 

“You had no other reason?” 





THE GREEN SCARF 


93 


“None. Why the question?” 

“ Because the men in the shop think you had.” 

“ What do they think it was ? ” 

“That you put me there to — to spy on them.” 

Tommy expected Mr. Burroughs to flare up in 
wrath at the enormity of the suspicion. But he did 
nothing of the sort. Instead, he laughed quite eas¬ 
ily. “ Half their time is spent suspecting somebody 
of something.” 

“You had no such idea?” 

“Of course not!” 

“Then I — I want you to take Dolan back.” 

“So! Why?” 

“Because if you don’t I — I’ll have to quit my¬ 
self.” 

“Just what do you mean?” The smile faded 
from Mr. Burroughs’ eyes, and he leaned forward. 

“ I mean that if Dolan goes they’ll blame me for 
it. They’ll think I’m the worst kind of a liar be¬ 
sides. And I can’t work with them if they do, that’s 
all.” Tommy’s voice trembled, partly with indig¬ 
nation, partly with disappointment. 

Mr. Burroughs pursed his lips. “It’s a rotten 
precedent, Cass.” He looked up at the ceiling, 
frowning. “But I see your side of it.” 

“You-” Tommy halted. It flashed upon 

him that Mr. Burroughs did not at all see his side 
of it — that he could not possibly see it. It was a 





94 


THE GREEN SCARF 


ghastly flaw to discover in one’s idol. 

“ You might perhaps get out of it this way,” pro¬ 
ceeded the coldly even voice. “ Tell him that you’ve 
interceded with me — successfully. Throw a scare 
into him. It may knock the trouble making out of 
him for a few months.” 

Tommy had learned many things, but he had not 
yet learned the prudence of slow speech. His 
thoughts still leaped from his tongue unrevised. 
“ Why do you put spies on the men ? ” he blurted. 

The response was curt: “ Because I have to.” 

“ But do you — really ? ” 

There was a touch of pride in Mr. Burroughs’ 
answer: “ There hasn’t been a strike in this plant 
since I’ve been here.” 

“And is that the reason?” 

“Yes. I know trouble’s brewing before they do 
themselves.” 

Tommy was unconvinced. “I’d hate it,” he said 
doggedly. 

“Naturally. So would I. But I’m not thinking 
of their feelings.” 

“Why don’t you?” 

Mr. Burroughs laughed — quite merrily. 
“You’re an interesting study, Cass. You’re learn¬ 
ing more rapidly than I ever thought you would.” 

“ It seems to me I’m un-learning,” muttered 
Tommy pensively. 



THE GREEN SCARF 


95 


“ The same thing. But you mustn’t stop.” 

" Gee, I couldn’t if I would! ” 

"Maybe not. But you could take the wrong 
track, you know.” 

"What is the wrong track?” 

" Sentimentality.” 

"I — I don’t quite understand.” 

"Oh, yes, you do. Only you don’t realize it. 
See here, Cass. You think I’m nothing but a cold¬ 
blooded profiteer, don’t you?” 

The query was embarrassing. " Why, I-” 

"Oh, yes; don’t deny it. You do. But you’re 
vvrong. I think about things — a lot. And I’ve had 
to put what I think to the acid test. I’ve been at 
it a good while, too. And I’ve made decisions. I 
know how you feel.” 

Tommy grinned. "That’s more than I do.” 

"You’ve had an easy, comfortable life, with 
things pretty well taken care of by somebody else, 
haven’t you ? ” 

"Yes — rather.” 

" I thought so. And then, quite suddenly, you’re 
thrown over your ears into the scrambling mess 
we call business. You got a peep into it through 
the advertising department. Another with Frem- 
bach. And now you’re getting introduced to the 
most important factor of all — the human factor — 
laborr 




9 6 


THE GREEN SCARF 


“But I’m not seeing it; I’m feeling it.” 

“Exactly. That’s why I stuck you at a stamp 
press. You’re feeling it. And unless I’m mistaken, 
you’re feeling it hard.” 

Tommy offered his hands with a grimace. “ Look 
at ’em!” 

“Just so. That’s the way most of mankind 
makes its living. It’s a hard way, too — callouses, 
sweat, lame backs. Not much like the way I make 
mine, eh? The contrast makes you mad. You 
think it’s a shame. You’ve begun to pity the poor 
devils who work with their hands. I wouldn’t be 
surprised if you were already resenting with ’em. 
Pretty soon you’ll be hating with them. Not know¬ 
ing what to hate, you’ll do what you’re told, and 
call it capitalism. Before you know it you’ll be a 
first-rate, journeyman socialist!” 

Tommy scratched his head meekly. Mr. Bur¬ 
roughs’ analysis of his spiritual progress was un¬ 
canny. 

“You’ll damn the rich man, regardless. You’ll 
talk all sorts of nonsense about the ‘ rights of labor,’ 
and finally you’ll personalize all your wrath in your 
employer—whoever he is. But, no — I’ll save you 
from that. Before you get to the bomb-throwing 
stage I’ll have you up here with me, and then you’ll 
see the show from the other side of the fence.” 
"But if-” 




THE GREEN SCARF 


97 


“ I know all about it, Tommy,” went on Mr. Bur¬ 
roughs, with an earnestness which made Tommy 
marvel. “ Tve worked with my hands myself. But 
I’ve been boss, too. It comes down to this: Life’s 
a pretty hard thing, whatever your role. Even I 
have troubles. Why, I’ve lain awake nights with 
responsibilities that your Dolans don’t even dream 
about. And half the time the trouble-making im¬ 
beciles never guess that it’s themselves I’m worry¬ 
ing about.” 

“ I hadn’t thought of that,” said Tommy frankly. 
“ You — you don’t look like a worrier.” 

“ Come! ” Mr. Burroughs sprang to his feet. 
“Look at these photographs. You met Gentles the 
other day. Do you think it was easy getting him 
to agree to this sort of thing—this rest room for 
the girls, for instance — the piano, those showers 
down cellar? Don’t you suppose he fought like a 
steer against the profit-sharing scheme I put in last 
year? My boy, more than half my work in this 
place has been trying to make the lot of the under 
dog a little happier.” 

Tommy marveled, speechless, at the real quiver 
of emotion in the man’s voice. And he had thought 
him hard! 

He bit his lip. “ I’ve been a dummy, I guess. I 
— I never realized.” 

“ Those I do it for don’t realize,” went on Mr. 



98 


THE GREEN SCARE 


Burroughs a little bitterly. “They babble about 
their rights — and do their best to kill the golden 
goose. That’s why I have to watch them — to save 

them for themselves. Why-” He began to 

speak almost excitedly, the words tumbling over 
each other in their eagerness to find expression. 
“ Have you ever seen a cleaner factory — more light 
— more air ? I rebuilt whole buildings because they 
were dark. And there isn’t an exposed gear, an inch 
of belting in the place. I put in safety appliances 
before the law even thought about such things. And 
yet they hate me!” His voice suddenly became 
quiet again. “ It comes down to this, Cass: They’re 
children — helpless, unfortunate, to be pitied per¬ 
haps— but born to be children, just as you were 
born to curly hair and intelligence. They can’t run 
themselves. They don’t know how. Somebody’s 
got to do it for them.” 

“I — I suppose so,” mumbled Tommy, enor¬ 
mously relieved at the heart he had discovered in 
Mr. Burroughs, but at the same time rather confused. 

Burroughs sighed. “It’s rather a relief to spill 
it all occasionally. One gets discouraged some¬ 
times, you know.” 

“I’ll bet it’s hard!” 

The president underwent one of his sudden trans¬ 
formations. He was his austere self once more. 
“Tell Dolan he can come back, if you like. But — 




THE GREEN SCARF 


99 


you understand — it's for your sake, not his.” 

“ Yes, of course.” As he rose Tommy suddenly 
remembered that he was in overalls. He stopped 
in the hall outside the president’s office to glance 
down at the greasy garment. It troubled him that 
he did not feel at all like overalls. 

Upon his return to the factory, he sought out 
Jake immediately. The old workman looked up 
from his bench silently. But there was a message 
in his eyes not to be mistaken. 

“ You’ve heard ? ” Tommy was struck to the heart. 
He quailed before the old man’s unspoken reproach. 

“I’m sorry, young feller. I — I trusted ye.” 

Tommy’s head went back, and he met the other’s 
gaze squarely. “I’ve lied more than once in my 
life,” he said through his teeth, “but not to you.” 

The old man shrugged his shoulders, and turned 
sorrowfully back to his work. The movement cut 
Tommy to the quick. “Jake,” he said softly, “if 
Dolan wants to, he can be at his bench in the morn¬ 
ing. I’m going to ask him now.” 

He put his working clothes in his locker, and got 
the address he wanted from the timekeeper. He 
was intent upon his purpose, but not too deeply to 
be aware of the contemptuous glances showered 
upon him from all sides. Apparently the news of 
Dolan’s discharge and the inevitable deductions 
thereon had penetrated everywhere. He smiled a 



IOO 


THE GREEN SCARF 


little grimly at the injustice of it. 

It was nearly dark when he reached his destina¬ 
tion. He found the Dolans — father, mother, and 
children — in poverty-stricken quarters. With a 
tightness in his throat and a mist in his eyes, he told 
the red-headed fellow that he could have his job 
back. The gratitude of the man and his wife was 
pitiful. 

He stumbled away through the dusk, stirred to 
the depths of his soul. He had always vaguely un¬ 
derstood that there were people in the world who 
walked daily on the margin of things. But to meet 
them in the flesh! He shuddered. 



CHAPTER VII 


T O TOMMY it was quite natural that he should 
go to Miss Manard with his turbulent ques¬ 
tions. But to Miss Manard it was extremely sur¬ 
prising. The surprise, however, was temporary. It 
was immediately succeeded by a subtle gratification. 
She said so frankly. 

“That’s ridiculous,” he replied. “You must 
think me an awful ass to be fussing so — about such 
simple things.” 

“ But they’re not simple,” she insisted. 

“Don’t you think they are?” 

“Indeed, I don’t.” 

Like all ingenuous people, he sometimes made ex¬ 
tremely searching remarks. “They don’t seem to 
bother you much.” 

She bit her lip. “I — I think you’d better not 
cross-question me,” she smiled wryly. 

He was too self-absorbed to notice the opening. 
“It’s funny how one’s way of looking at things 
changes. I’ve always thought that what one’s born 
to he ought to make the best of. There’s lots of 
people better off than I am. I don’t envy ’em much. 
I certainly don’t hate them. I’ve always taken it 
IOI 


102 


THE GREEN SCARF 


for granted that people worse off than I am feel the 
same way about me. Now I find they don’t.” 

“What makes you think they don’t?” 

He told her of the subtle antagonisms he had en¬ 
countered in the factory. “They’re eaten up with 
a feeling of injustice.” 

“Queer, isn’t it?” 

“ That’s the funniest part of it. At first I thought 
it was queer. Now I don’t, somehow. Doing the 
same work they do and living with them makes you 
feel different about it. When I’m in overalls I get 
an awful dislike for the T. Cass who used to sit up 
here in a white collar correcting proof.” 

She smiled quizzically. “ You’re an odd boy.” 

He accepted the cue literally. “I guess I am. 
I feel as if I was getting to be a different person alto¬ 
gether. I never used to think about the fellows who 
did the dirty work in the world — the work had to 
be done, and it was done, and that’s all there was 
to it. Now I’m wondering why I wasn’t picked for 
some dirty work.” 

“You’re intelligent.” 

“Maybe. But why? Why does T. Cass have 
the chance and Bill Jones never get a look-in?” 

“You’re asking hard questions. Why haven’t I 
red hair?” 

He sighed. “ It used to be so simple — work hard, 
be honest, get ahead; that’s all there was to it. Now, 



THE GREEN SCARF 


103 


darn it, there’s something — oh, something—that 
isn’t quite square about getting ahead. I’ve got the 
jump on those fellows in the shop. I beat the gun 
at the get-away. It — it doesn’t sfeem right.” 

“Why do you trouble yourself?” she asked 
softly. It crossed her mind that this amiable lad 
she had hitherto rather patronized was growing 
rapidly into manhood. In a flash of prescience she 
saw herself looking up to him, rather than down. 
She wondered that she had not before observed the 
resolute angularity of his chin. 

He shrugged his shoulders helplessly. “Blessed 
if I know. I can’t seem to help it. You’ve been in 
it longer than I have. It’s simple enough to 
you —■—” 

“What makes you think that?” 

“Isn’t it?” 

She shook her head. “Far from it. I’ve taken 
things for granted, too. I’ve had to.” 

“How so?” 

“Just like yourself. I’ve been so busy just work¬ 
ing and being honest and — and getting ahead. I’ve 
never had time to think much about the why of it 

all.” 

Tommy slapped his knee, his eyes sparkling. 
“That’s it! The chaps who do the talking are the 
loafers. The men who are really turning out the 
stuff are too busy to-” 





104 


THE GREEN SCARF 


Her eyes closed thoughtfully. “Did you ever 
consider that the people who’ve made the rules for 
the rest of the world have usually been-—loafers?” 

He stared at her, expecting a paradox. But she 
went on seriously: 

“ Philosophers seldom work at any other job. 
Perhaps being a philosopher and studying out how 
things ought to be is a job in itself. If philosophy 
depended on the rest of us, the world would never 
move; we’re all too busy getting our own particular 
selves ahead.” 

“Now that’s funny. I never thought of that.” 

“ I don’t know that I ever did myself — until you 
made me.” 

“I?” Tommy laughed incredulously. 

“Yes. I — I’m objective naturally. Women are. 
They’re not philosophers at all. They take things 
as they come.” 

“That’s just what I thought I was going to do. 
I meant to take business as it came. But, darn it, 
business hasn’t waited. It’s taken me. And turned 
me upside down! ” 

“Don’t you like it?” 

“ What ? Business ? ” 

“Yes.” 

Tommy pondered for a moment. “I’m hanged 
if I know! At first I thought I did. But now — 
with what I’ve seen of the inside —I — I don’t 



THE GREEN SCARF 


IQ 5 

know. It’s got a fine face. But there’s something 
wrong underneath. It — it’s like lifting a pretty 
white stone and finding crawling things-” 

She nodded. “ I know, But you’ve been imbib¬ 
ing strange doctrine, Mr. Cass.” 

Tommy grew heated. “It’s not strange! I’ve 
merely been in the shop long enough to understand 
those fellows’ point of view. They work mighty 
hard, I want to tell you. And they’re a pretty 
shrewd lot of men. They’re not serfs—not by a 
long shot. You can’t blame them for hating the 
nickelplated shower baths and libraries and phono¬ 
graphs and what not that Burroughs gives them. 
I almost hate ’em myself. Good gravy! Wouldn’t 
you hate to be tipped?” 

“ I don’t think you’re quite fair to him.” 

“ Maybe not. But I can’t help feeling that he’s 
on the wrong track just the same. If he thinks 
he’s building on a sound foundation by depending 
on spies and bribery, he’s dead wrong, that’s all. 
Maybe you can keep Russian muzhiks in line with 
whips and sugar plums, but those fellows down¬ 
stairs are mighty different stuff. Some day they’re 
going to show it, and then Burroughs is going to 
learn something.” 

“ It’s too bad he doesn’t realize the value of your 
advice.” Miss Manard’s sarcasm was perfectly ap¬ 
parent. 




io6 


THE GREEN SCARF 


It brought Tommy up with a rude jerk. His 
glowing eagerness was suddenly chilled, and he 
stared at her, his lip pendulous. “ Why do you say 
that ? ” he demanded. 

She tossed her head faintly. “You seem to have 
gathered sounder ideas in six months than Mr. Bur¬ 
roughs has in sixteen years.” 

“ That’s not fair.” A dull red showed under his 
smooth skin. 

“It’s always fair to criticize — but never to criti¬ 
cize criticism, I suppose.” 

“That’s not fair, either,” he repeated, the blood 
receding from his compressed lips. 

“A man who is held in high regard by most peo¬ 
ple, who produces dividends from a difficult busi¬ 
ness, and whose factory is widely held as a model, 
impresses a young man just out of college as-” 

“ I’m sorry I spoke about it,” he said stiffly. 

Her cold irony suddenly left her. “You ought 
to be,” she flared. “ I didn’t think it was in you to 
be so — so ungrateful. You’ve had more done for 
you than-” 

“ I don’t want things done for me,” he broke in 
sullenly. “That’s just what I’m kicking about.” 

Her mounting irritation got the better of her. “ I 
wish to goodness you’d had some experience with 
ordinary men. You’d be a little fairer in your 
estimate of Mr. Burroughs.” 





THE GREEN SCARF 


107 

He surveyed her, considering. “I seem to be 
making a great hit with you.” 

She stamped her foot. “You — you ought to be 
spanked!” 

His eyes blinked in frank wonderment. “I never 
knew you put Burroughs on such a pedestal,” he 
said slowly. 

She opened her lips to speak, but the sudden, 
illuminating grimness of the lines about his mouth 
checked her. She fingered a paper weight irreso¬ 
lutely. Then she looked up with an ingenuous 
smile. “I beg your pardon,” she said lightly. 
“ You mustn’t ever argue with a woman, you know. 
We always lose our tempers.” 

There was no answering smile. Tommy’s jaw 
was set, and he seemed unaware that she had 
spoken. 

She tried again, employing an easy carelessness 
she did not in the least feel. “ You will forgive me, 
won’t you? It was awfully silly of me.” 

Tommy nodded absently, but the forbidding 
harshness of his features remained unsoftened. He 
rose. “ You were perfectly justified,” he said slowly. 
A faint tremble was just perceptible in his voice. 
“I — I didn’t understand, that’s all.” 

“Didn’t understand what?” The question was 
gratuitous, and she knew it. 

Tommy arose to go, there was no answer, save 



io8 


THE GREEN SCARF 


the vicious slam of the door behind him. 

We are apt to think of the growth of understand¬ 
ing as a gradual process; we are wrong when we do. 
Understanding comes upon the soul as a sudden, 
lambent flash. A chance word, a gesture, a fleeting 
scene is the magic talisman which brings to light 
all manner of hitherto unrelated and unrealized im¬ 
pressions, fusing them instantaneously into a new, 
astonishing, but perfectly definite conviction. 

Tommy was surprised and enormously puzzled, 
but quite cognizant, in a curiously detached way, 
of his own reaction to Miss Manard’s defense of 
Mr. Burroughs. It was like lifting a worn old 
board in a familiar room and discovering a stair¬ 
way of white marble, which led to all sorts of de¬ 
lightfully unimagined things. The stairway had 
been there always, but that made its discovery none 
the less startling. 

There was, of course, nothing out of the way in 
Miss Manard’s support of their common employer. 
It might, indeed, be dismissed as mere loyalty. Its 
expression was rather unnecessarily heated and a 
trifle illogical, perhaps; beyond that there was no 
ground even for comment. The disconcerting thing 
was his own response. 

He had parted from her that climacteric after¬ 
noon in a state of enormous anger. He remained 
angry for days thereafter. And the worst of it was 



THE GREEN SCARF 


log 


he knew perfectly well why he was angry. He 
could theorize and debate and put endless hy¬ 
pothetical questions to himself, but always his tem¬ 
peramental straightness of thought brought him 
back to the bald, absurd, altogether disturbing fact 
— he was jealous! 

He began to avoid her sedulously. The occasion¬ 
ally inevitable encounters were marked, on his part, 
by a coldly polite reserve; on hers by a timid provoc¬ 
ativeness. She had intuition enough to understand 
clearly the motives which inspired his seeming in¬ 
difference. But her femininity drove her to toy 
with the situation. His almost frantic efforts to 
preserve his pose afforded her not a little secret 
satisfaction. 

Tommy was equally desirous of avoiding Mr. 
Burroughs. That, however, was not as readily ac¬ 
complished. The calls from the president’s office 
were frequent, and it was not always possible to 
confine the interviews to mere routine affairs. 

The situation was impossible. More than once 
he debated the easy solution of quitting his job. A 
kind of dogged pride alone prevented. If he was 
making a fool of himself by the thoughts which 
gnawed his soul, he would merely double his folly 
by flight. 

Thus always has man conned himself and glazed 
over the weakness which is his heritage. 



no 


THE GREEN SCARF 


Then inexorably the climax came. He had 
dropped his pocketknife in a pile of scraps, and the 
task of salvage had kept him considerably after 
closing time. He was just putting on his civilian 
clothes, as he called them, and thinking of nothing 
more important in the immediate future than the 
Wednesday night prospect of French-fried potatoes 
when Mr. Kloepke called to him, asking him to take 
some orders up to the office on his way out. 

He mounted the stairs unconcernedly, his blithe 
whistle echoing in the empty halls. “ The boy stood 
on the burning deck,” he hummed, “ whence all but 
he had fled.” 

It was after six o’clock, and the office was empty. 
The winter twilight had long since settled, and the 
furniture was visible only in gleams and heavy 
shadows. The door to Mr. Burroughs’ sanctum 
was closed, but under the circumstances it did not 
occur to him to knock. 

He was sorry immediately. As the door opened 
under his hand, he was conscious of a dark mass, 
silhouetted in the gloom against the faint light from 
the window. Before he could open his mouth the 
mass had resolved itself into two parts. Then his 
eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, and he recog¬ 
nized Mr. Burroughs and Miss Manard. 

“I — I beg your pardon,” he stammered, turning 
to beat a hasty retreat. 



THE GREEN SCARF 


hi 


Mr. Burroughs’ voice was not quite as level as 
usual, but it was well controlled: “You wished to 
see me, Cass?” 

Tommy held out the bundle of papers. “J-just 
some orders, sir.” 

Again he turned to go, but before he could reach 
the door there was a swish of skirts, and Miss Man- 
ard had preceded him. 

On the stairs, he tried to pass her without speak¬ 
ing, but she would not have it so. 

“I haven’t seen you for ages,” she said lightly, 
falling into step beside him. “ What do you do with 
yourself ? ” 

Tommy wanted to murmur something politely 
noncommittal and continue flight; instead, he found 
himself suggesting that he accompany her home¬ 
ward. It added nothing to his peace of mind that 
she accepted. 

It was crisply cold, and the stars were out. Rea¬ 
son dictated the street car, but walking was decided 
upon. 

“I never thought that of Burroughs,” he said 
presently, when they had gone a little way in silence. 

“Thought what?” Color glowed in her cheeks, 
whether from the nipping wind or something else 
one could not say. 

“That he — he’d take advantage of you like 
that.” 




112 


THE GREEN SCARF 


“ What makes you think he — he took advantage 
of me?” 

“I—'I could break his neck!” he declared in 
sudden, irrelevant fury. 

“Why?” The query was put softly, and she 
smiled in the concealment of her muff. 

He spoke abruptly. “ Let’s have a hot chocolate 
or something.” 

The suggestion was almost peremptory, and she 
followed him into the drug store obediently. They 
found a comer stall — and privacy. 

Tommy went on as if there had been no inter¬ 
ruption: “He had no right!” 

“Might I ask why?” Her eyes flashed danger¬ 
ously. 

“Because — because-” He floundered, obvi¬ 

ously helpless, his tongue quite inadequate to his 
emotions. 

“Yes — go on.” 

“ He took advantage of you.” 

“You’re repeating yourself.” 

A sudden, discouraging thought overcame him. 
“You mean —you — didn’t object?” His chagrin 
was almost comic. 

“ I didn’t say so.” 

“ But you meant it? ” 

“What do you think?” Miss Manard’s feminin¬ 
ity was ruling her completely. 




THE GREEN SCARF 


113 

“I’ve quit thinking,” muttered Tommy dismally, 
staring at his cup. “I — I don’t know how.” 

She studied him appraisingly. “You’re a funny 
boy,” she said as if to herself. 

He snapped back irritably: “Oh, for goodness’ 
sake quit calling me a boy! ” 

She laughed outright. “You’ll always be a boy!” 

Finesse was hardly Tommy’s forte. “Are you 
engaged to him ? ” 

The laughter vanished from her eyes. “No.” 

“Well — are you going to be?” 

“ What right have you to ask ? ” 

“Because — because -- ” A savage growl 

escaped him. “ If he’s just playing with you, I’ll — 
I’ll break his confounded neck! ” 

“And if he’s not playing—what then?” 

He threw himself back in his chair, blinking. 

“Why, I — I-” He burst into expostulation. 

“You can’t mean that. Why — he’s too old!” 

“ He’s thirty-seven.” 

“ See here, Miss Manard.” Tommy sought des¬ 
perately to collate all the scattered threads of a situ¬ 
ation which thus far had gotten the better of him. 
“ I’m of age myself. I wish you’d talk without as¬ 
suming that I was six months old! ” 

“Well — what do you want me to say?” 

“ Is Burroughs in love with you ? ” 

“Have you the right to ask that?” 





THE GREEN SCARF 


114 

“ I certainly have. Is he?” 

“ He said he was.” 

“And you — are you in love with him?” 

She hesitated long enough to cause Tommy a 
spasm of acute pain. “That, of course, isn’t your 
business at all,” she answered finally, without look¬ 
ing at him. 

He leaned across the table, his eyes narrowed ob¬ 
stinately. “But it is my business.” 

“Why?” The question was put so softly that 
only the faint movement of her lips was perceptible. 

“Because, if you are, I’ll give you my blessing 
and quit bothering you.” 

“And if I’m not?” 

Tommy drew a long breath. “ Then I’m going 
to give you a chance to be in love with me.” 

That was precisely what any one less obtuse than 
himself would have known she was expecting him 
to say. Nevertheless, womanlike, she was tremen¬ 
dously surprised when he did say it. She laughed 
nervously. 

“Why, Mr. Cass — what do you mean?” Im¬ 
mediately the words left her lips he was aware of 
their one hundred per cent simpering banality. It 
was exactly what silly, disingenuous maidens always 
said. She tried again: “I think, Mr. Cass-” 

“ It’s going to be Tommy and Anne after this,” 
he said cheerfully. 




THE GREEN SCARF 


I£5 

She regained her poise presently. “Am I to 
gather that you are offering me your heart and 
hand?” she inquired, deliberately flippant. 

The mockery was not at all lost upon him, but his 
reply was stubborn: “You are.” 

She surveyed him quizzically, not without a cer¬ 
tain wistfulness. “ Do you mean that you’re in love 
with me, Tommy?” 

He looked at her for a long moment without 
speaking. It was a look which made her drop her 
eyes. “Anne,” he said gently, with an odd catch 
in his voice, “ this is a public place. I’ve got to talk 
as if I was selling a gallon of paint. But under 
proper conditions-” 

She made as if to rise. There was a sudden tim¬ 
idity in her eyes, and she avoided meeting his gaze 
directly. “I — I think we’d better be going.” 

His brusque gesture halted her. “Hold on,” he 
said bluntly. “I’m not through. You think I’m 
crazy. I’ve got to explain.” 

“ Explain ? ” 

“Yes. You think this is sudden. It isn’t. Fact 
is, I’ve been liking you better and better from the 
minute I saw you first. But I thought I was just 
liking you. Even this didn’t show me I was kidding 
myself. Look! ” 

Deliberately he unscrewed the case of his watch 
and laid it on the table before her. “ I cut this out 




n6 


THE GREEN SCARF 


of the big picture of the office force that was taken 
last spring. I — I’ve been carrying it around for 
months.” 

She put her hand over her eyes, and he failed 
to see the mist which had dimmed them. He went 
on quietly: 

“ It wasn’t till I butted in on you and Burroughs 
tonight that I — realized. Anne,” he said solemnly, 
“I — I’m jealous!” 

“Isn’t that perhaps it — just jealousy?” she 
queried very gently. 

He pondered for a moment. “ Maybe,” he said 
frankly. “ Maybe it is. But just the thought that 
you’d say you were crazy about Burroughs made 
me — sick all over. I don’t know. I’ve never been 
in love before. I only know I think about you most 
of the time. I-” 

Her lips twisted in a wry little smile, and her 
eyes were moist. “Most people go mad like this 
in the spring. It’s like you to pick midwinter.” 

“It just happened that way,” he answered liter¬ 
ally. 

“I — I think I ought to apologize.” 

“Good Lord — what for?” 

“For letting you—for making you — go mad.” 
She shook her head at his expostulations. “You 
don’t understand, Tommy. Women are queer crea¬ 
tures. They’re awfully vain! They like to hear 




THE GREEN SCARF 


HZ 

things — what you’ve said — even when they 
shouldn’t.” 

“What you’re getting at, of course, is that you 
don’t give a hang about me.” He spoke with pro¬ 
found dejection. 

“ No, Tommy, I don’t mean that at all. You’re 
the dearest boy I’ve ever known. And-” 

“There’s a ‘but’-” 

“Yes, there’s a ‘but.’ Shall I be quite frank — 
and practical ? You won’t mind ? ” 

“ I’d like the truth.” 

“I believe you would. Well, then, Tommy — I 
like you tremendously. But I don’t think I — I care 
for you — the way you mean. I — I haven’t thought 
of you that way. I’ve been awfully fond of you — 
and proud — as if I were your sister.” 

“Oh, good Lord!” he groaned. “That sister 
stuff!” 

“You wanted me to be candid.” 

“You are. But go on. How about Burroughs?” 

She hesitated for a moment, contemplating her 
fingers. “If I tell you the truth, you — you won’t 
like it. The truth isn’t very pretty in this case, 
Tommy.” 

“Go ahead,” he commanded. “If you make me 
hate you, it’ll be better for me, I suppose.” 

“Perhaps you’re right.” A sigh escaped her. 
“But it’s hard, Tommy. However-” She 






n8 


THE GREEN SCARF 


seemed visibly to pull herself together. “You ask 
about Mr. Burroughs. Well — I respect him more 
than any man I’ve ever known. I admire him for 
what he’s done and for what he is. And I think 
I know more about him than any other living soul. 
He does a great many generous, beautiful things 
that no one knows about, Tommy.” 

“He’s a peach!” declared Tommy sincerely. 

“He is indeed. But I — I don’t care for him the 
way he cares for me.” 

“You don’t?” Tommy, in sudden exaltation, 
half rose from his chair. 

“Wait. I don’t love him — no. But I — I — oh, 
I hate to tell you this: I’ve thought of marrying 
him.” 

“Oh!” Tommy collapsed heavily. 

“I knew you’d hate me when you heard the 
truth.” 

“Go on,” he muttered through clenched teeth. 

A kind of defiance hardened her features. She 
seemed to plead. “It’s not lovely. But I — I’ve 
had to fight for what I’ve gotten out of life. And, 
oh, Tommy, sometimes I get so tired!” 

“You — poor kid!” he choked, and was silent. 

“ The devils of loneliness get me sometimes. And 
I’m afraid about the future.” 

He nodded. “I know.” 

“ No, dear boy, you don’t. I’m weaker and more 



THE GREEN SCARF 


iig 

worthless than you guess. It isn’t merely that I 
sometimes want a home and some one to take care 
of me. I’m more selfish than that. Other men have 
offered me homes. But what they offered wasn’t 
any better than the one I could give myself. Mr. 

Burroughs-” She clenched her teeth, and a red 

spot showed on either cheek. “ I’m showing you 
my whole soul. Tommy. He — he could give me a 
great deal I couldn’t give myself, ever.” 

Tommy was momentarily stung to brutality: 
“ Clothes, I suppose ? ” 

She quailed at his tone. “Yes— and a position 
in the world. I’m a snob, Tommy. I admire him 
because he’s better than other men — abler. As his 
wife, I’d-” 

“How long have you been — er — thinking — 
about this?” 

“Oh, a long time.” 

“Why haven’t you gone through with it?” 

She affected lightness, without success. “Con¬ 
science partly. I — I just couldn’t. And then some¬ 
times my work saved me. When conscience got 
feeble, a big campaign would come up, or something 
like that, and I’d be saved again.” 

Tommy pondered, methodically rearranging his 
spoon. Presently he looked up. His gray eyes 
were cold, though a dull fire lurked in their depths. 
“Your plan was to sell yourself to Burroughs for 





120 


THE GREEN SCARF 


what he could pay ? ” 

She recoiled at the harshness of the question. 
“Yes,” she said defiantly. “You see what I am!” 

He ignored the lead. “ Suppose,” he asked 
thoughtfully, “some one else bid higher — me, for 
instance ? ” 

“You?” She searched his face for signs of 
levity. 

He nodded grimly. 

She could not resist a smile. “ It’ll be many years 
before you reach his income, Tommy.” 

“Suppose I reached it — sooner?” 

A man would explain the sudden transformation 
she underwent by a shrug of the shoulders and a 
reference to her sex. But under similar circum¬ 
stances a man would act precisely as she did. It is 
human nature to begin discussions with a proposal 
of utter frankness. And then, when the proposal 
is acted upon literally, we lose our tempers. 

It was one thing, she found, for her to analyze 
herself candidly and without reserve, but it was 
altogether another thing for him to accept that an¬ 
alysis without protest or demur. His coldly brutal 
question stung her to a hot and quite illogical re¬ 
sponse. 

“You needn’t be entirely silly,” she snapped. 
“ It’ll be some time before you make as much as I 
do myself.” 



THE GREEN SCARF 


121 


He was hurt and surprised by her change of 
front, but he persisted stubbornly: “Suppose I 
make it quicker than you think?” 

“You’ve got to make more than money,” she 
answered harshly. 

“And that is ? ” 

“Yourself. You’re a soft, untried boy. You’ve 
got to prove yourself a man.” 

When Tommy took a line of thought it was dif¬ 
ficult to dislodge him. He was pertinacious by in¬ 
stinct and conviction. “All right. When I grow 
up — will you listen to me?” 

She threw up her hands in helpless exasperation. 
“You’re impossible!” she exclaimed. 

“ I’m in love with you,” he replied imperturbably. 

“Very well — prove it.” 

“ I’m going to.” 

She rose, drawing on her gloves. Her lips were 
tightly compressed, and Tommy thought her angry. 
Had he been more experienced in observation, he 
would have known that she was perilously close to 
tears. 

Even as it was, an impulse seized him — more 
wise than reasoned. But the appearance of the drug 
clerk spoiled it. 

On the street corner, as they waited for her car, 
he seized her hand. 

“Give me time,” he whispered earnestly in her 



122 


THE GREEN SCARF 


ear. “ Lay off on that Burroughs stuff for a while, 
and-” 

Then the car came, with a rumble and screech, 
drowning out her answer. Afterward he was not 
sure that she had made any. 




CHAPTER VIII 


D URING the winter, Tommy paid frequent 
visits to Frembach. The old chemist had 
fitted up a rude but adequate laboratory in the cellar 
of his home, and whatever the hour was almost cer¬ 
tain to be found laboring among his steaming re¬ 
torts and test tubes, glowing with colors which 
would have made Joseph’s coat a monochrome by 
comparison. 

The opening query was always the same: “ Well, 
how goes it?” 

The answer was delivered in varying degrees of 
irritability. Sometimes it would be merely a surly 
shake of the head; sometimes a weary, almost pa¬ 
thetic, sigh. And again it would be a brief but 
placid word of confidence, accompanied by a flick¬ 
ering gleam in the faded blue eyes. More than once 
there was fervid expostulation for the impatience 
of unreasonable and ignorant folk, as when he 
pointed out wrathfully that it “took an oyster a 
devil of a long time to make a pearl! ” 

Once a month precisely the old man rendered an 
account, in his fine, cramped hand, of all expendi¬ 
tures. These were remarkable documents, and 


123 


124 


THE GREEN SCARF 


Tommy’s father, to whom they were regularly for¬ 
warded, extracted many a chuckle from them. 
There would be, for example, an item, “ 3 ft. cop¬ 
per wire, 18 gauge — 9c.” And on the next line be¬ 
low, “ miscellaneous, $8.65.” 

Tommy, fearing possible criticism, tried to point 
out the inadequacy of this sort of bookkeeping. 
But the old man could not be made to see that his 
methods were obscure. And too much insistence 
upon the subject only effected a relapse into injured 
silence. Fortunately, however, it was manifest in 
the totals that his economy was meticulous. 

All these visits concluded in the same fashion. 
“Well, keep ’er going,” Tommy would say, with a 
cheerful pat on the shoulder. 

Frembach would growl bearishly and mutter 
something about “next time.” 

One of Tommy’s friends was old Pete McKin¬ 
non, who by reason of rheumatism and an upright 
character served as timekeeper. Frequently he took 
his luncheon out to the weatherbeaten shed by the 
gate to chat with the old veteran of other days. 

One morning in early February he was sitting be¬ 
side the stove, listening to Pete discourse upon base¬ 
ball in the consulship of Plancus, when the face of 
Ole Jensen, a big Swede, whose acquaintance he 
had made through a mutual love of skating, ap- 



THE GREEN SCARF 


125 


peared at the wicket. 

“Good-by/' said Jensen in his deep voice when 
the window was opened. 

“Good-by?” echoed Tommy, wondering. The 
Swede had not been a particularly brilliant work¬ 
man, but he had been steady and well meaning. 
“What you talking about?” 

“I’m goin’. Laid off.” He thrust out his big 
hand. 

“Why — what in the world for?” 

Old Pete spoke up in explanation. “ They’re 
layin’ off a bunch o’ men, account o’ th’ shortage 
in color. It’s only th’ new fellers, though.” 

“Shortage in color?” repeated Tommy. 

“Yep. They got more orders up to the office 
than they can fill. An’ they ain’t no raw color to 
be had. Them Germans-” 

The time had come! To the surprise of the two 
men, a broad grin appeared on Tommy’s face. 
“ Say, Jensen,” he said with what seemed to the big 
Swede rather inept cheerfulness, “you leave your 
address with Pete here. You’ll be havin’ your job 
back pretty soon, or I miss my guess.” 

Before he could be questioned, he had sped away. 

Mr. Burroughs had not returned from luncheon, 
and Tommy chafed impatiently as he waited. He 
watched the outer door, and he began his attack the 
moment Mr. Burroughs entered. 




126 


THE GREEN SCARF 


“Say, Mr. Burroughs,” he opened breathlessly, 
“ I hear they’re laying off men for lack of material.” 

“Yes. Why so excited about it?” 

“Well, I know where there’s a lot of color.” 

“So? In Berlin, I suppose.” 

Tommy, in his eagerness, failed to heed the sar¬ 
casm. “ No,” he answered literally, “ right here in 
Chicago.” 

“ Really! At a hundred dollars an ounce, no 
doubt?” 

“ No, sir. It’d cost anybody else pretty near that. 
But the Champion Paint and Varnish Company can 
have it for just what it cost six months ago.” 

Burroughs expanded in a chuckle. “ Have a cigar, 
Cass. Settle your nerves.” 

“ I mean it! ” 

“You mean you’re heaping coals of fire on my 
head for not listening to you before.” 

“No, sir. I mean just what I say.” 

“Well — where is it?” 

Tommy hesitated; also he blushed. Both things 
gave an entirely wrong significance to his reply: “ 1 
— I don’t exactly know that” 

Mr. Burroughs’ features hardened. “ This seems 
to be a very elaborate joke, Cass. Won’t you let 
me in on it?” 

“It’s not a joke. Really it isn’t.” 

“Well, if you don’t know where the stuff is, per- 



THE GREEN SCARF 


127 


haps you can tell me the singular person who owns 
it.” 

“Yes, sir. It’s me!” 

“ You?” 

“ Yes.” 

“What the-” Mr. Burroughs looked almost 

alarmed. “Here — take several cigars! You need 
a doctor, don't you?” 

“No, sir. I’m not kidding. You see, when you 
couldn’t see my suggestion about stocking up on 
color, I — I rustled around and picked up all I could 
myself. I — I had a little money.” 

Mr. Burroughs’ jaw dropped. “Cass — you’re 
the most amazing chap I’ve ever known! You — 
you mean to say you actually went ahead on that 
idea of yours?” 

“Yes, sir. There wasn’t any risk. I knew I 
could always sell it at the old price. And-” 

“And now you’re offering to give it away?” 

“Oh, no; just what I paid for it.” 

“ That’s the same thing.” Mr. Burroughs leaned 
back, puffing hard on his cigar. Then his eyes nar¬ 
rowed, and he favored Tommy with a frigid stare. 
“Are you playing deeper than it looks, Cass?” 

“Deeper? I don’t understand.” 

“ Why are you offering this to us for a third of 
what any one else would give you ? ” 

Tommy scratched his head. “Why — er — it 





128 


THE GREEN SCARF 


wouldn’t be right, would it, to squeeze you when 
you can’t help yourself?” 

“Are you referring to me — or the company?” 

“There isn’t any difference, is there?” 

Mr. Burroughs’ fist came down on the desk, and 
he nearly bit through his cigar. “You beat all!” 
he ejaculated. 

Tommy shrugged his shoulders helplessly, getting 
very red. “I — I don’t want to seem preachy,” he 
stammered uncomfortably, “but I — I—oh, you 
know what I mean — I think a fellow ought to — to 
feel as if he was part of the company. I don’t 
amount to anything, of course. But I — well, I like 
to think of Champion the way I used to think about 
college.” 

A slow smile spread over Burroughs’ face. “ In 
some ways, Tommy,” he said gently, “you’re a re¬ 
markable business man. And then again — you’re 
ahead of your time.” 

“ It’d be like dipping into the cash box,” persisted 
Tommy doggedly. 

Burroughs’ smile deepened. “Like many fine 
characters, my boy, you’re a good deal of an ass! ” 

“I don’t-” 

“The company will take that color off your 
hands- 

“Yes, sir.” 

“At the present market price.” 





THE GREEN SCARF 


129 


“ But, Mr.-” 

“You’ve already consumed more of my time than 
was necessary, young man.” 

“But I can’t-” 

“You can get out!” A rare smile counterbal¬ 
anced the ungraciousness of the words. 

When the door had at last closed behind the pro¬ 
testations of Tommy, the president of the Champion 
Paint and Varnish Company sat lost in meditation. 
Presently he touched a button at his side. 

The stenographer who answered it came in, note¬ 
book in hand. Usually he was ready with his dicta¬ 
tion, and she held her pencil poised. But this time 
he sat back in his chair, silent, his eyes closed. He 
opened them at her discreet cough. 

“Oh, beg pardon,” he murmured absently. “I 
— I was thinking of something else. A letter to 
McKee & Berger, please-” 

As quickly as he could get to pencil and paper, 
Tommy sat down to computation of his winnings. 
The first figures were incredible. That decimal point 
was misplaced surely! Ridiculous! But repetition 
brought the same result. Balboa on the peak of 
Darien was not more proud. Being honest with 
himself, he was not unaware of the element of 
chance in his success; being human, he appraised 
chance at about two per centum of the whole. 






130 


THE GREEN SCARF 


It was scarcely possible to accomplish any work 
that day. Too often his fingers were stilled as his 
thoughts wandered off in delicious reverie. More 
than once he caught himself thinking pleasantly of 
old Pop Farr and the Green Scarf. Had he won it? 

That night he found, waiting for him at his 
boarding house, a note from Dick Morehouse, a 
classmate, inclosing an invitation from Mr. and 
Mrs. William Hanshew Rygate to a dinner dance at 
their home. 

With Spartan denial of exceptions, he had hith¬ 
erto declined all such invitations. He had derived 
some comfort in the abnegation, by a persuasion 
that such frivolity as dances accorded ill with the 
intentions of a serious young man of business; one 
who had danced all night could not hope to work all 
day, et cetera. The real reason, however, becomes 
clear with a little simple arithmetic. He was firmly 
resolved to live within his salary. And even so 
slight an excess as the laundering of dress shirts 
was more than that modest sum could well embrace. 

But the happy outcome of his speculation in col¬ 
ors put a different face upon things. He could 
charter an entire laundry if he so desired! He 
could ride endlessly in taxis — send orchids — give 
a dance himself; there was really nothing this side 
of mere vulgar ostentation that he could not con¬ 
trive, if he chose! 



THE GREEN SCARF 


111 

On the other hand, there was need for celebra¬ 
tion. A real need! He seized a sheet of paper forth¬ 
with to inform Mr. and Mrs. William Hanshew Ry- 
gate with what extraordinary pleasure Mr. Thomas 
Cass accepted the proffer of their hospitality. 

When the time came, it quite renewed his youth 
to fit himself once more into the singular garments 
which civilized man has decreed to be one of the 
concomitants of gayety. He rubbed his smooth, 
pink cheeks, standing before the mirror. Who’d 
ever guess, to look at this exquisite, that he was 
really a bold bandit of finance, with a matter of a 
couple of thousand or so all but in his pocket? He 
laughed. 

At the Rygates’, an impressive tabernacle of 
brown sandstone on the Drive, he was not greeted 
with felicitations upon his business acumen. But 
it was presently evident that an earlier reputation 
had preceded him. At dinner he found himself 
placed beside a damsel who, a quick comparison 
made clear, had been conferred upon him as a mark 
of honor. 

“ I’ve met your sister,” she began. “And the 
Hortons and the Blakes and Roger Coit. I’ve vis¬ 
ited in Cleveland lots.” 

He was woefully out of practice, but the need 
was exigent. He lied bravely. “ I’ve heard Marion 
talk about you — often, Miss — er ”— a hasty glance 



* 3 2 


THE GREEN SCARF 


at her place card saved him—“Miss Sanborn. Er 
— Cleveland’s a nice town, don’t you think ? ” 

The salad was served before the topic of mutual 
friends was entirely exhausted. Then her polite 
attention to the man on her left gave Tommy an 
opportunity to consider. He was disturbed to find 
himself distinctly bored. And, what was worse, he 
felt reasonably certain that Miss Sanborn found 
him tedious. There had been signs. Time was, 
he reflected, when the passing of the soup would 
have found him on terms of intimacy with so charm¬ 
ing a person as this young lady. But times had 
changed. He was heavy as lead. It was self-evi¬ 
dent. 

Miss Sanborn had also been considering the situ¬ 
ation. She was perplexed. The much-heralded 
Tommy Cass was undeniably disappointing. He 
was hard to talk to. But she was persistent and 
hopeful. She soon reverted to the attack. 

Athletics was usually dependable conversation¬ 
ally. “What’s the matter with Yale, anyway? 
That game last fall was simply dreadful.” 

She cherished no particular interest for football, 
and she expected an avalanche of dullness in re¬ 
sponse to her question, but she was not at all pre¬ 
pared for indifference. 

“To tell you the truth,” he said absently, “I 
haven’t paid much attention to what’s going on 



THE GREEN SCARF 


133 


down there. I’ve been unusually busy.” 

“ Oh! ” There was a protracted silence. Then, 
with a faint sigh, she tried again: “ You’re in busi¬ 
ness out here, aren’t you?” 

“Yes.” 

“It must be awfully interesting.” She spoke 
with exactly the same degree of animation with 
which she would have said twice two were four. 
But Tommy’s eyes lighted. 

“ It’s great! ” he declared. 

She had touched the right chord! The inevita¬ 
bility of man’s egoism. Obviously, to make Mr. T. 
Cass talk, he must be made to talk about himself. 
Ipse facto, Mr. Cass was exactly like all other men 
in a debutante’s life. She sighed again. 

“ What is your business ? ” 

“ Paints.” 

“You must work awfully hard. Dick says he 
never sees you. He was awfully surprised you came 
tonight.” 

“I don’t travel on Dick’s beat. You see, our 
factory’s ’way out on Diversey, and I don’t often 
get downtown.” 

“That must be dreadfully hard. I should think 
you’d miss seeing the other boys.” 

Tommy grew very earnest. “ I’m too busy. I’m 
working in the shop—really learning the business, 
you know. And the men are the most important 



134 


THE GREEN SCARF 


thing to learn. I spend as much time as I can with 
them. Why, last Saturday I went skating with a 
big Swede. A fine chap, too, when you get to know 
him.” 

“ Really! ” Miss Sanborn was young, but ex¬ 
perienced ; she simulated intense amazement. 

Tommy rushed on, headlong: “You bet! I 
want to tell you, those fellows are just as human 
as we are — and sometimes a whole lot more!” 

“You must have awfully interesting experi¬ 
ences.” 

“ Rather. I feel as if I was getting educated for 
the first time. I never knew before that business 
was anything more than making stuff and selling 
it. Now I’m making the acquaintance of what my 
boss calls the ‘human equation.’ I say — I’m not 
boring you, am I?” 

“Oh, indeed not!” Miss Sanborn arched her 
brows as if in pain that he could make such a sug¬ 
gestion. “ I think it’s most awfully interesting.” 

“One gets going, you know; it’s hard to know 
when to stop.” 

“ One who can talk like you can needn’t worry.” 

He was too rapt in his subject to note the flat¬ 
tery. He pressed on, his forehead wrinkled: “ The 
thing that got me most at first was why those fel¬ 
lows hated rich people so. Now, by George, I’m 
beginning to feel the same way myself! I haven’t 



THE GREEN SCARF 


135 


got much respect for myself — what I used to be, 
that is. I was too darned satisfied, if you know 
what I mean. I thought of working people the 
way you think of — of — well, horses.” 

“You’re a regular socialist, Mr. Cass!” She 
laughed musically, much as if she were suggesting 
that he had a pound of dynamite in either pocket. 
But he answered quite seriously: 

“Maybe I am. A lot of the boys out there are. 
They give me stuff to read, and I’ve been to some 
meetings. But most of the socialists are such nuts! 
Their ideas make you think of a deafmute tryin’ 
to teach singing. I don’t know. It doesn’t seem 
practical.” 

“ I suppose not.” Miss Sanborn’s eyes came to¬ 
gether, and she contrived to look very thoughtful. 
It would have shocked and amazed Tommy to know 
that she was really wondering whether her bodice 
was cut as clumsily as Miriam Rhodes’ across the 
table. 

But he was not a mind reader. “I don’t think 
they’ve got the right medicine,” he went on. “I 
sympathize with their feelings, though. You can’t 
blame ’em. Why, good Lord — just look at the 
stuff that’s been put before us tonight — nibbled at 
— thrown away-” 

“It’s dreadful, isn’t it?” she murmured sympa¬ 
thetically. 




136 


THE GREEN SCARF 


“It’s criminal; that’s what it is! Why, I know 
men who work like horses all day and every day — 
and can’t save enough to keep from starving if 
they’re laid off a week!” 

“You don’t mean it!” 

“ I do mean it. And when I say starving I mean 
starving. I tell you, there’s something wrong with 
the system of things when people like us can have 
everything we want without working, and people 
who work like the dickens-” 

Miss Sanborn agreed that it was “awful.” She 
also thought that “something ought to be done 
about it.” But when Mrs. Rygate rose, with the 
signal for the adjournment of the ladies, Miss San¬ 
born betrayed no excessive regret that the discus¬ 
sion of ways and means must be terminated. 

Tommy swallowed his chilled coffee in one gulp. 

Upstairs, Miss Sanborn was presently answering 
queries as to Mr. Cass. “ No sense of humor,” she 
observed judiciously between dextrous manipula¬ 
tions of the powder puff. “Terribly serious — and 
did you notice Peter Carrick? I do wish he’d try 
coming to a dance sober. It’s disgusting! Didn’t 
you nearly die when he spilled the champagne? 
Mrs. Rygate’s expression was a scream!” Her 
cool laugh rippled like an arpeggio. 

Over the cigarettes and liqueurs, meanwhile, 
Tommy was listening to the conversation of the 




THE GREEN SCARF 


137 


ptfrer young men at the table. At one end was a 
heated debate on the strategy of the war, distin¬ 
guished by conspicuous misinformation and fre¬ 
quent reference to “ militaryism.” Nearer at hand, 
little knots whispered together with the discretion 
which, among gentlemen, accompanies talk of fem¬ 
ininity. And around himself gathered a respectful 
quartet, insistent upon a discussion of the fine art 
of football. 

Save for the one topic of the war, it was exactly 
like the similar gatherings he had attended in great 
numbers ever since his promotion to long trousers. 
But it came over him with a kind of pang that he 
was not really a part of it. He was detached and 
a little bored. And he was frankly relieved when 
it was suggested that they join the ladies. 

He found the dancing much easier. He liked to 
dance, and it was a long time since he had had the 
opportunity. One didn’t have to. talk; in fact, it 
was better not to. 

He was catholic in his favors, and it was pres¬ 
ently the verdict among the feminine portion of 
the party that Miss Sanborn’s opinion of him had 
not been quite adequate. He danced with the grace 
of a perfect physique and a natural ear for rhythm. 
Miss Sanborn herself soon reversed her decision. 
After their third dance, she even went so far as to 
suggest his coming to see her. His success was 



138 


THE GREEN SCARF 


best indicated by the fact that Dick Morehouse, to 
whom Miss Sanborn was the embodiment of all 
earthly perfection, and who danced atrociously, 
more than half regretted that he had persuaded 
Tommy to come. 

Tommy had had every intention of leaving early. 
But a perfect orchestra and the odor of heliotrope 
makes even the most resolute forget the passage of 
time. It was not until the strains of “ Good Night, 
Ladies” floated from the violins that he recalled 
his intention. 

He held out his hand to his partner. “ It’s been 
great! ” 

Before she could make reply, Morehouse, fairly 
radiating wrath, had shouldered between them. 
“You give me the encore,” he snapped. Tommy 
grinned as they jerked awa)^. The malevolent glare 
with which he had been favored was a justification 
and a fitting climax for the evening. 

It was not many hours removed from daylight 
when Tommy arrived at the bare little room he 
called home. He felt singularly lonely. His mind 
was filled with a complexity of ideas, and he yearned 
for some one at hand to listen in sympathy while 
he poured them out. 

He undressed slowly, the sporadic moments of 
exertion contrasting with long stretches where he 
sat on the edge of the bed, staring into vacancy. 



THE GREEN SCARF 


139 


He was not at all sleepy. Presently the craving for 
expression became irresistible. It occurred to him 
that he had not written to his father in a long time. 

Acting on the impulse, he extracted the old port¬ 
folio— companion of his college days — from the 
trunk, and began a letter. 

It started out chronologically — in reverse. That 
is, the first paragraph dealt with the sweet smile 
of Miss Sanborn at parting. That made him think 
of the other guests at the Rygates, who had formed 
her background. He wrote: 

They’re nice people, but empty as an old paint bar¬ 
rel. They talk a lot — but they never say anything 
— nothing worth while. It’s gossip and twaddle. 
They call the war dreadful. Think of it! It makes 
me think of an ass I met once who said the sunrise 
was “ rather pretty.” 

He reread that paragraph, and it sounded rather 
patronizing. So he added: 

The worst of it is, I used to be just like that my¬ 
self. I thought the only people in the world were 
the ones I knew — and their friends. Gosh — we’re 
nothing but the nickel plate on the engine! And we 
never even give a thought to the coal. 

The simile he thought apt, and he expatiated upon 
it. In nervous, choppy sentences he told of his dis¬ 
covery of the bigness of the wwld. He violated 
syntax ruthlessly. But he wrote from the heart. 




140 _ THE GREEN SCARF 


and so contrived to convey an extremely vivid pic¬ 
ture of what life had begun to mean to him. 

He had much to say — extravagant at times, a 
trifle incoherent, not always just or well balanced; 
but burning with the fervor of youth. The pas¬ 
sionate words made the wise old man who read 
them smile, and again they brought to his eyes 
something like tears. None knew better than he 
how much humanity, on its sweating struggle up¬ 
ward, had need of the selfless emotion of the young, 
even as it had need of the dry caution of those older 
and more reasoning. 

Tommy, writing hotly of the ills of men, turned 
insensibly from the general to the specific. Tritely 
he continued: 

Those fellows I’m working with are just as fine 
at heart as any men I ever knew in college. They’re 
rough, of course, but that’s just the surface. Under¬ 
neath, they’re just like other men. Sometimes I 
think they’re better. Certainly they’re more generous. 

And then presently he was saying: 

That Miss Manard — I believe I’ve mentioned her 
before — is certainly a wonder. I’m glad I went to 
this blowout tonight. It makes me appreciate her 
better. Those girls, like Dick’s friend, Miss Sanborn 
— they’re pretty and good and all that, but gosh! 
they’ve got minds like chickadees! And you’ve got 
to handle them just so. There’s a regular stock lingo 
prescribed for every occasion. Miss Manard’s dif- 



THE GREEN SCARF 


Hi 

ferent. You talk to her like you’d talk to a man. 
Only she’s smarter than most men I know. She’s 
got more ideas in a minute than the average fellow 
like me has in a year. And she doesn’t just echo 
somebody else, like a lot of highbrows do. She 
thinks for herself — and she thinks through. Dad, 
she’s a wonder! 


There was a surprising amount of information 
to be conveyed about Miss Manard — repetitions, 
inevitably, but poured out with such enthusiasm and 
naivete that one could not be critical; even if he 
would. Growing conscious of his garrulity, he ex¬ 
plained : 

You might think from all this that I was with her 
most of the time. No such luck! She hasn’t any 
time to waste on me. I’m only a cub, you know — 
and I’m kept pretty busy myself. I go out to shows 
with her sometimes. She always insists on making 
it Dutch. You see, she really thinks I have nothing 
to live on but my weekly insult in the way of salary. 
I’d like to surprise her, only I’m afraid she wouldn’t 
have anything more to do with me if I did. Not 
the same way, I mean. 

Tommy was not aware of being particularly 
revelational. And he ceased writing only when he 
discovered that there was no more writing paper. 

With a sigh of weariness, he folded up the nu¬ 
merous sheets of the epistle and put them in the 
envelope. Then he remembered that he had for¬ 
gotten something, and he took the last sheet out. 



142 


THE GREEN SCARF 


His afterthought was both characteristic and sig¬ 
nificant. In the very fine hand required to get them 
into one corner, he wrote perhaps a dozen words 
concerning his coup in the color market. His suc¬ 
cess, he attributed briefly to luck, and of Mr. Bur¬ 
roughs he said that he was “ darned generous.” 

The pink vanguard of dawn was creeping through 
the window when he finally tumbled into bed. 

“ Maybe I am a kid,” he murmured sleepily, and 
perhaps irrelevantly. “But I’m growing up. You 
wait.” 

One guesses that the thought was not directed at 
his father. 



CHAPTER IX 


M R. CASS, senior, read that letter from his 
son with conflicting emotions. Pride was 
one of them. There were others — not so specific. 
He denied himself to callers while he pondered over 
the singular document. There were chuckles. And, 
again, heavy sighs. But when he closed up his desk 
and went home that night, his resolution had evolved 
out of the chaos of doubt. His taking his wife 
into consultation was Napoleonic; his mind was 
quite made up. 

Without comment, he gave her the letter to read. 
“ Well — and what’s to be done?” he asked when 
she had finished. 

“ He — he’s infatuated with the girl! ” cried Mrs. 
Cass in the tone she would have employed to con¬ 
fess that he had cracked a safe. 

“You think so?” 

“It’s self-evident. Oh, dear!” 

“What would you advise?” 

“It was a mistake his ever going out there. I 

said so at the time. Such a foolish thing-” 

“Nevertheless, he’s there,” supplied Mr. Cass 
dryly. 


143 



144 


THE GREEN SCARF 


“ Send for him at once. We must get him away 
from her influence.” 

“Haven’t much confidence in him, have you, 
Mary?” 

“ He’s only a boy. Any woman could twist him 
around her finger.” 

Mr. Cass pursed his lips. “ I’m not so sure. He 
seems to me to be maturing rapidly.” 

Tommy’s mother could not view her boy so dis¬ 
passionately. “He’s just at the impressionable 
age,” she protested. “ He ought to be at home.” 

Mr. Cass smiled. “ I was a long way from home 
when I met you, Mary,” he said softly. 

“ That was entirely different. There were mutual 
friends. We knew a great deal about each other.” 

“ But we didn’t act on the advice of others. As 
I remember, I-” 

“You were an entirely different kind of boy.” 

“You advise, then, that I send for him?” 

“ Certainly.” 

“ Suppose he refuses to come? ” 

She was aghast at the thought. “ Oh, he wouldn’t 
do that! ” 

“He might.” 

“ Oh, my poor baby! ” Mrs, Cass collapsed in 
the chair, the tears welling into her eyes. “ What 
can we do! ” 

Mr. Cass spoke absently as though deep in 




THE GREEN SCARF 


145 

thought: “ I’d rather like to meet her ” 

His wife looked up, suddenly hopeful. “You 
mean — you — you might buy her off?” She was 
extremely romantic and not very sophisticated. 

He laughed. “ Hardly, my dear. I don’t gather 
from the lad’s letter that she’s any scheming vam¬ 
pire.” 

“ But she might be.” 

“ I suppose one way to find out would be to — to 
ask her.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” 

“ I’d like to have her under observation for a few 
days. She might be just the girl for him, after 
all.” 

“ This isn’t a time to be flippant! ” 

“ I’m not. I’m very serious.” 

Mrs. Cass manifested alarm. “Henry, what is 
in your mind ? ” 

He smoked thoughtfully for a moment before he 
replied: “I’ve been considering the thing, Mary. 
How would it be to have her visit us ? ” 

“Why not visit her?” 

He shook his head. “Not intimate enough. I 
should want to see her off parade — take breakfast 
with her, for instance.” 

Mrs. Cass gazed around anxiously. “You want 
me to ask her — here?” 

“ No, dear. I don’t think she’d come if you did.” 



146 


THE GREEN SCARF 


“Then why-” 

“ Hold on! Let me outline my plan. I suggest 
that you and Marion get up a party to spend a few 
days at the cabin —- winter sports in the woods, you 
know.” 

“ Henry! Are you quite mad ? ” 

“Not at all. Invite the most charming young 
girls you know. And include Miss Manard.” 

“ But, Henry, why go running ’way up in Michi¬ 
gan? Why wouldn’t-” 

He sighed patiently. “You don’t understand 
my scheme.” 

“I certainly do not!” 

“It’s very simple. You spoke of this young 
woman as an adventuress, planning to run off with 
your darling boy. Well, if she is, his peril is in di¬ 
rect ratio to her knowledge of his value. As a ten- 
dollar-a-week cub, he’s reasonably safe. As Thomas 
Cass, second, however, he becomes a pearl of price. 
You’ll grant that, won’t you?” 

“Yes, of course. But-” 

“Well, then, if she visits us here-” He 

swept his arm around the great library, filled with 
furniture of richly carved Circassian walnut and 
hung with the rare brocades which were a nation’s 
pride. “She will understand what apparently she 
does not understand now.” 

“Oh — I see!” 







THE GREEN SCARF 


147 


“I knew you would,” he murmured diplomati¬ 
cally. “If we go up to the woods, we can main¬ 
tain the awful secret. High boots and sweaters will 
be an excellent dfeguise. I can pass for a well-to- 
do greengrocer. And Marion can forget tempo¬ 
rarily that she ever saw Miss Finch’s.” 

“But Tommy?” 

“ I think he can safely be trusted.” 

Mrs. Cass twined her hands nervously. “ I de¬ 
clare, it’s the strangest performance!” 

He smiled quizzically. “My dear, the world is 
full of strange performances. Even business. Do 
you know my method of determining wheat from 
chaff in applicants for positions at the bank?” 

“You don’t ask them to visit you in the wilds of 
Michigan, I’ll warrant!” she snapped with grim 
humor. 

“ No, but it’s unusual, none the less. I have a 
pad of scratch paper laid out on my desk and a 
few sheets of the bank’s engraved stationery be¬ 
side it. Then I casually ask the applicant to write 
his name. If he uses the letterhead, his goose is 
thereby cooked. He is too extravagant for bank¬ 
ing. Eve found the plan very useful.” 

A sudden, distressing thought made Mrs. Cass 
inattentive. “But suppose, Henry—suppose this 
Manard person should not be impossible!” 

“ Well?” 



148 


THE GREEN SCARF 


“ This plan of yours might not work at all. He’s 
an obstinate boy, you know.” 

“He might be more infatuated than ever, eh?” 

“Yes. Have you thought of that? What would 
you do ? ” 

Mr. Cass picked up a book from the table and 
thumbed its leaves. “ In that case, Mary,” he said 
easily, “I should be inclined to feel that it was 
strictly his affair.” 

“ Oh, Henry! ” Mrs. Cass broke into open weep¬ 
ing. 

He squirmed uncomfortably. “You’ll write her 
at once, won’t you ? ” 

Her reply was undistinguishable. 

Nevertheless, she did write — the next day. It 
was necessary, of course, that she take Marion into 
her confidence, which was fortunate. The latter 
was a young person of spirit and understanding, 
and when she fully grasped the significance of the 
scheme she entered into it whole-heartedly. Under 
her revision, her mother’s note of invitation was 
transformed from a rather ominous and chilling 
document, with a stiff formality which most as¬ 
suredly would have defeated its purpose, into a 
warm and friendly appeal that Tommy’s pleasant 
intimacy might be shared by those to whom all the 
things of his life were dear. It was such a letter 
as no man could write, and very few women. Mrs. 



THE GREEN SCARF 


149 


Cass, seeing in it only a different phraseology from 
her own effort, copied it in her stiffly regular hand, 
and sent it off. Marion, not wholly satisfied, added 
a postscript in the form of a note sent separately. 

Simultaneously she made careful arrangements 
for the other guests. Perceiving very clearly the 
purpose of her father’s plan, she extended her in¬ 
vitations judiciously. In testimony to Tommy’s 
love of sport, she included Nell Whitney. Edith 
Byram, she recalled, possessed a voice which 
Tommy had once likened to a flute on the lips of a 
seraph. And Corinne Mason had gone to the Prom 
with him, with consequences, it came back on her 
now, believed serious at the time. Each one of 
the girls had figured prominently in Tommy’s life. 
It was quite fitting that they should cancel whatever 
indebtedness existed by acting as counter-irritants 
for his salvation — and without knowing it. Marion 
had a sense of humor; the notion tickled her 
hugely. 

It was not, of course, necessary to tell them to 
exercise all their available charms. They being 
feminine, and Tommy being Tommy, they would 
see to that inevitably. Nor was it necessary to put 
them on their guard against revelation of the very 
thing they were being taken all the way to Michi¬ 
gan to conceal. Nell Whitney, though the daughter 
of a prominent divine, was as boisterous and given 



THE GREEN SCARF 


150 

to mannish slang as if she had been bred in the 
Bowery. Edith Byram, despite parents whose 
wealth was a byword, affected parsimony in her 
conversation. And Corinne Mason was perfectly 
safe, because she was always content to let her face 
and figure do her talking for her. 

The feminine contingent selected, and acceptances 
secured, Marion felt that the really important part 
of her task was completed. The men did not count 
particularly. Of those she chose she saw to it 
merely that they were acceptable to the girls — and 
no more. It would not do to have the singleness of 
purpose of the affair marred by anything like com¬ 
petition ! 

Mr. Cass, having assured himself that the out¬ 
come of the matter was in the capable hands of his 
daughter, said no more. He contented himself with 
soothing his wife’s periodic outbursts of fretful 
alarm. 

Miss Manard’s feelings, upon receipt of the invi¬ 
tation, made a mockery of language. She went 
through a very spectrum of emotion, ending finally 
in ultra-violent regions of amazement. When she 
had read it at least a dozen times she took up the 
telephone in a trembling hand and summoned 
Tommy. 

He came in, wondering. It was the first time 




THE GREEN SCARF 


I5i 

she had ever called him like this. And when he saw 
the expression on her face he burst out in alarm: 

“Great Scott — what’s up?” 

For reply she handed him his mother’s letter and 
Marion’s postscript. “Are you responsible?” she 
asked almost accusingly. 

When he had read enough to grasp the meaning 
of her question, he shook his head emphatically. 
“ It’s Marion,” he said with assurance. “ Good lit¬ 
tle sis! It’s just like her.” 

“ She’s very kind,” said Miss Manard mechani¬ 
cally. 

“She’s a corker! She — you’ll go, of course?” 

Miss Manard laughed — a trifle uncomfortably. 
“Oh, Tommy-” 

“You bet you will!” His eyes lighted. “We’ll 
have a bully time.” 

She shook her head. “Oh — I couldn’t!” 

“ Why not ? ” His jaw stuck out belligerently. 

“I — couldn’t give the time. I-” 

“ Bosh! Things are slack here. Besides, it’ll do 
you good. You’ll be worth more when you get 
back.” 

“I — I haven’t anything to wear.” 

“Gee whiz! You don’t need anything. A 
sweater, heavy shoes, pair o’ skates — what else do 
you want?” 

“I’d love to, but 


She sighed pensively. 






151 


THE GREEN SCARF 


“Aw, come on! It’s great up there now. There’s 
snowshoeing and hockey — on the smoothest ice 
you ever saw — and — gosh! we’d have a corking 
time. And I’d love to have you meet the folks. 
You’d like dad. Get him in front of the ol’ log 
fire, with the apples roasting and a little hot toddy 
to oil the engine, and he’s the greatest little story¬ 
teller you ever heard in your life.” 

“ I’d love that,” she murmured, her eyes far away. 

“Then let’s go to it. I’ll wire ’em. Burroughs 
won’t kick, will he ? ” 

“I don’t think so, but-■” 

“Oh, can the buts! Say, did you ever ski? 
There’s some wonderful hills up there. And the 
air! Gee, to breathe that ozone after this smoke 
would be like heaven! And those girls Marion’s 
got are — but you don’t care about the girls, I sup¬ 
pose. Let me tell you about the fellows. There’s 
Joe Aishton and-” 

“Don’t be silly, Tommy. If I went, it would 
be-” 

“Then you are thinking of it?” he queried 
eagerly. 

“ Of course I’m thinking of it.” 

“Then quit thinking — and do it.” 

“You don’t know how I’m tempted.” 

He looked aggrieved. “I must say you seem 
pretty strong at resisting temptation.” 






THE GREEN SCARF 


153 


“It only seems so,” she laughed. “I — I feel my¬ 
self slipping. Oh, Tommy,” she burst out pas¬ 
sionately, “I — Fm crazy to go!” 

“Well, then, for the love o’ Mike — why don’t 
you ? ” 

Her eyes sought the distance, and her voice be¬ 
came vaguely sad. “It’s like a vision of heaven; 
you’re right. It — it takes me back to long ago. I 
haven’t tobogganed and all that since I was a lit¬ 
tle girl. Oh, Tommy, why did you speak about 
apples toasting on a log fire ? I thought you were 
a friend!” 

“I won’t go unless you do,” he declared stub¬ 
bornly. 

She seemed not to hear him. Manifestly her 
thoughts were far away. “ Sometimes I feel as 
if I’d worked for hundreds of years,” she said. 
“I suppose I’m silly, but I — I — oh, how I’d like 
to play for just a little while! You don’t know 
how this grind gets on my nerves sometimes. The 
office seems so small and dingy — life seems dingy! 
Youth goes skipping by, and I sit here, looking out 
of my window — just looking. I thought when I 
was little that people grew old gradually. But I 
didn’t. I got middle-aged overnight. It was work 
— work — work. And youth always playing just 
outside the window. I — I wasn’t invited to the 
party.” She touched her eyes with her handker- 



154 


THE GREEN SCARF 


chief. “Oh, Tommy, I’m a perfect idiot! But I 
— I c-can’t h-help it!” 

“You poor kid!” he muttered huskily. He 
choked and swallowed hard. “ Come on up to the 
frozen pines and forget it! ” 

She was herself in an instant. “I ought to be 
put in a closet for a week,” she said severely. “ The 

idea! Snivelling like that. I-” She broke 

down again. “It’s just that I — I get so awfully 
tired sometimes,” she explained unsteadily. “It — 
it’s nerves, I suppose. I-” 

He put his hand on her shoulder, and his own 
voice was far from even. “You’ll be in a daffy 
house if you don’t give the old machine a rest,” he 
said with an effort at jauntiness. “ I’m pretty sick 
of things as they are myself. Let’s chuck it all and 
go up where the North Star hangs out.” It might 
have been the mere physical fact of his standing 
above her, or perhaps only her momentary loss of 
poise. At any rate, he felt an unwonted sense of 
protectiveness. It was singularly pleasant. The 
capable, rather frostily superior Miss Manard was 
suddenly just a tired, not very happy, little girl 
who needed comforting — masculine comforting. 
He patted her gently, and a long, tremulous breath 
escaped him. “That’s settled,” he said emphati¬ 
cally. “You’re going — and that’s all there is to 
it!” 





THE GREEN SCARF 


155 


Miss Manard, too, must have been under the 
spell of the situation, for if she uttered any further 
protest it was not audible. 

More urgent matters came up to demand 
Tommy’s attention, and it was not until the next 
day that he found an opportunity to broach the 
matter of leave to Mr. Burroughs. 

The latter looked up quickly from under his 
brows at the conclusion of the little speech. It 
occurred to Tommy that Mr. Burroughs was rather 
more surprised and perturbed than the simple re¬ 
quest would warrant. 

“ You want a week off, eh? ” said the latter, seem¬ 
ingly striving to maintain an impassive exterior. 
Tommy observed that his fingers twitched nerv¬ 
ously. 

“Yes, sir. That is, I’ll take my vacation now in¬ 
stead of next summer.” 

“Has it — er—occurred to you that you might 
not be with the company next summer ? ” asked Mr. 
Burroughs coldly. 

Tommy was startled. “Why, no, sir — it 
hadn’t,” he admitted frankly. 

“Vacations are not usually granted before an 
employee has spent a year with the concern.” 

“No, I — I suppose not.” Tommy was crest¬ 
fallen. 

“You’re very anxious to go?” It seemed as if 



THE GREEN SCARF 


156 

Mr. Burroughs’ cold gray eyes bored him with un¬ 
wonted keenness. 

“Yes, sir. Very.” 

Mr. Burroughs said nothing for a moment. He 
stared at his desk, tapping jerkily on its plate-glass 
surface with his pencil. Then his teeth clicked 
sharply. 

“All right. Go.” 

Tommy mumbled his thanks, and left the office 
hurriedly. He was too perplexed to be hurt or 
angry, but he could not rid himself of a feeling that 
Mr. Burroughs’ treatment of him had been rather 
more caustic than the occasion required. 

Then, as he pondered over the matter, a ray of 
light entered his puzzled brain, and he smote his 
thigh. An amazed chuckle escaped him. “The ol’ 
son of a gun!” he whispered softly. 

It would have amazed him more had he known 
that at that particular moment Mr. Burroughs, the 
self-contained, the imperturbable, the emotionless 
machine, was pacing his office like a caged panther, 
gnawing at his lip, his eyes contracted fiercely, and 
on his brow the black scowl which betokened the 
blacker soul within. 

Tommy always thought of Mr. Burroughs as 
“old.” And Mr. Burroughs always thought of 
Tommy as “young.” Both, of course, were mis¬ 
taken. 



THE GREEN SCARF 


157 


It afforded Tommy a singular thrill to purchase 
the tickets for himself and Miss Manard. And 
with the elaborate delicacy of youth he made it a 
point to secure berths at opposite ends of the car. 
She was intuitive, and understood the maneuver at 
once, albeit none the less appreciative of the fine¬ 
ness of spirit which had inspired it. 

Mr. Cass, senior, accompanied by Marion, met 
the train next morning. Their greeting was brief, 
but genuine. Tommy was particularly relieved at 
his sister’s cordiality. He had been troubled with 
unpleasant forebodings. 

Leaving the others, he went off to see about the 
trunks. When he returned it was evident that all 
restraint had vanished. A kind of intimacy had 
already been established, and it was a gay and genial 
party which climbed into the big cutter for the long 
drive to the cabin. 

“Gee!” cried Tommy. “The snow’s actually 
white!” 

“What did you think it would be?” asked his 
sister. 

“It’s black in Chicago.” 

The bells on the harness tinkled a merry obligato 
to the laughter sparkling in the sleigh. The run¬ 
ners creaked frostily, and the vapor rose from the 
horses’ nostrils like feathery plumes. 

Tommy inhaled deeply of the crisp air. “This 



158 


THE GREEN SCARF 


is the life! Gosh, I’ve got an appetite already. How 
'bout you, Anne ? ” 

Mr. Cass looked away. So they’d gotten to first 
names! He had learned something already. 

Breakfast was waiting, with Mrs. Cass at the 
head of the table. Tommy kissed his mother — 
or thought he did; he was, in fact, quite passive in 
the ceremony—as sons usually are — and Miss 
Manard accepted her hostess’ welcome with quiet 
self-possession. 

There was a moment of constraint, following 
Anne’s presentation to the other guests who were 
already down. But the platter of golden eggs and 
hospitable fragrance of smoking bacon saved the 
situation. One by one the belated members of the 
party drifted in, and thus the assimilation of the 
stranger was accomplished more easily and more 
rapidly than had there been a stiffly conventional 
round of introductions at one time. 

Tommy was conscious of a pleasant atmosphere, 
as he was of a relief from all his disagreeable pre¬ 
sentiments. He was not at all aware, of course, 
that much of this pleasant atmosphere was the re¬ 
sult of definite premeditation on the part of his 
father. “We shall make her feel at home,” Mr. 
Cass had suggested, “by presenting ourselves in 
small doses.” 

When the last flapjack had floated into memory 



THE GREEN SCARF 


159 


on a river of amber sirup, they adjourned to the 
crackling fire in the other room. 

“I haven’t enjoyed the smell of birch logs in 
years,” sighed Tommy contentedly, standing with 
legs apart before the great fireplace of field stones. 
“It’s great!” 

Mrs. Cass, oppressed by her obligations, and al¬ 
ways practical, had taken Miss Manard aside. “ The 
others are going out skiing this morning. Perhaps 
you’d prefer to get rested first, after your tiresome 
trip ? ” 

Edith Byram, lazily ensconced in a chaise longue, 
added her encouragement to indolence. “I’m not 
up to the strenuous life this morning myself. I 
have some new magazines, Miss Manard. If you 
care-” 

Miss Manard appeared to hesitate, and Tommy 
entered the discussion. “If you want to loaf, why 
— loaf. It’s do as you please in this crowd, you 
know.” 

But Miss Manard was not tempted as he sup¬ 
posed. “If my trunk is here,” she said, “and the 
others will wait while I change, I — think I’d like 
to ski.” 

Tommy exhibited his elation. “Sure, it’s here. 
Show Anne her room, sis —and fix her up with any¬ 
thing she needs.” He tossed the end of his cigarette 
in the fireplace, and, followed by the other boys, 




i6o 


THE GREEN SCARF 


went out to his own quarters. 

Behind him a brief discussion took place. Miss 
Byram murmured something about “ simply stun- 
ning,” and resumed her novel. Nell Whitney, re¬ 
placing a broken lace in her shoe, voiced her ap¬ 
proval of Miss Manard’s surprisingly athletic fig¬ 
ure. And Mrs. Cass observed judiciously that she 
was a “ very charming person.” Then she followed 
her daughter, conscientiously desirous of rendering 
assistance. Mr. Cass, who said nothing, but 
thought much, went to his study to dispose of the 
morning mail. 

When none were left but Miss Byram and Miss 
Whitney, the former’s languor deserted her. She 
sat up briskly. 

“What d’ye think of her, Nell?” 

“Good sort, I guess,” mumbled Nell through a 
mouthful of lacing. 

“Think she’ll like this sort of thing?” 

Nell shrugged her muscular shoulders. Then 
she glanced down at her own well-worn costume, 
and grinned. “ I s’pose she’ll appear in the very 
latest thing in outdoor wear.” 

She was mistaken. When Anne reappeared pres¬ 
ently she was in a garb more service marked by far 
than Miss Whitney’s. She did not apologize for 
it, as if she knew very well how extremely fit and 
capable she looked. Miss Whitney, keen-eyed and 



THE GREEN SCARF 


161 


professional, appraised the newcomer, from her 
strong, rubber-soled moccasins to the obviously old, 
but obviously serviceable, toque of gray lamb’s wool. 

There was no time for talk. Every one at once 
turned to with a will at loading skis, luncheon ham¬ 
per, stove, and what not into the capacious old cut¬ 
ter. And in a very few minutes, with Tommy, 
whistling gayly, at the reins, they sped off, a merry 
crew, buried to their noses in an assortment of an¬ 
cient furs and raveled blankets that made them look 
like an animated rag bag. Miss Manard, who had 
been doing a deal of speculating on her own account, 
decided that her first assumptions regarding Tommy 
and his family needed amplification. He was not 
poor; that was plain. His people clearly were of 
that comfortable, pleasure-loving, well-bred class 
which is, if not the froth, certainly the cream of 
the land, unostentatious and liberal, making what 
it has go far and finding fullness in all the days of 
life. Had Mr. Cass been informed of her conclu¬ 
sion, he would have been well pleased. It was for 
precisely such a conclusion that he had planned. 

There were two hills at their destination, one long 
and gently sloping, the other shorter, but quite steep. 
The former, suggested Tommy, was for the novice 
— which practically included most of the party. 
Anne thanked him gravely for his warning, and 
then, as soon as her skis were adjusted, proceeded 



162 


THE GREEN SCARF 


to make her way up the hill against which he had 
warned her. 

He thought she had misunderstood. Miss Whit¬ 
ney, who had ventured upon that hill once or twice, 
was frankly alarmed. “You oughtn’t to let her, 
Tommy.” 

“ Hey, there! ” he shouted. “ Don’t try that.” 

But Miss Manard merely waved blithely in an¬ 
swer to their calls, and kept on with the ascent. 

A moment later she had reached the top, and 
stood silhouetted against the sky. Then, with an¬ 
other wave of the hand, she began the slide. The 
steepness was considerable, and she was soon mov¬ 
ing rapidly. And then, just as she passed the fasci¬ 
nated knot of watchers, the expected happened. 
Nothing on earth is more sudden than a ski fall; 
one rarely sees the cause. And so all their startled 
eyes took in was a rolling, bouncing tangle of legs 
and twisted skis go shooting down the hill like a 
small avalanche. 

Tommy was the first to reach her. His voice 
trembled as he questioned her. But he could not 
forbear to add, reprovingly: “ I think you’d better 
take my advice until you get the hang of it.” 

It was a minute or two before she regained her 
breath. “That was a beautiful tumble, wasn’t it?” 
she panted. Then she knelt down and began read¬ 
justing the straps of her skis. 



THE GREEN SCARF 


163 

Miss Whitney, who had come up in time to see 
this, added her disapproval: “I wouldn’t fasten 
them if I were you. It’s dangerous.” 

Anne’s answer was polite, but firm: “ Thanks. 
But you can’t ski decently if they’re loose.” Her 
cheeks were flaming scarlet, and her lips were com¬ 
pressed. She rose to her feet and smoothed her 
disarranged attire. 

“ Don’t you think you’d better rest a bit? ” queried 
Tommy anxiously. 

She merely shook her head, smiling, and, pole in 
hand, began to move off. 

“ What are you doing now ? ” 

The answer was flung over her shoulder grimly: 
“Trying it again!” 

Tommy’s mouth opened in expostulation: “ But 

_ )} 

Joe Aishton, one of the other boys, who cus¬ 
tomarily did his skiing on the level, applauded vig¬ 
orously : 

“You’re there, Miss Manard! By Jiminy, you 
are! ” 

Plodding stubbornly up the ascent, she waved 
back at him. The gesture angered Tommy. “Aw, 
shut up, Aishton! ” he growled. “ There’s no sense 
in being foolhardy, you know. She — she might 
break something.” 

Anne quickly reached the summit. She turned, 




164 


THE GREEN SCARF 


her slim figure black against the snow, and waved 
again. Tommy cupped his hands about his mouth 
to shout a last protest. It was too late. She was 
already coming down. 

He wanted to turn his head away from the in¬ 
evitable. But something held him fascinated. She 
was flying now with the speed of a hawk, her out¬ 
stretched arms curiously like wings. She passed 
the watching group, a mere streak of gray, their 
eyes following anxiously. Tommy stood only a mo¬ 
ment. Then, with an inarticulate cry, he plunged 
down through the snow in pursuit. 

But there was no rescue needed this time. Miss 
Manard had already reached the foot of the hill. 
A sudden twist of the skis, amazingly under con¬ 
trol, and she had stopped abruptly — still on her 
feet. It was perfection from start to finish! 

Tommy met her returning up the hill. “You’re 
no beginner! ” he declared accusingly. 

She laughed, her cheeks aglow. “ Oh, dear, no! 
I was just out of practice, that’s all.” 

She received the plaudits of the others quietly. 
“I did a lot of this when I was a little girl,” she 
explained almost apologetically. 

How very much she had done was made increas¬ 
ingly apparent. Even Miss Whitney was soon ask¬ 
ing for pointers. The solicitude they had at first 
manifested for the stranger soon became frank re- 



THE GREEN SCARF 


165 

spect, and culminated finally in dumb amazement 
when she suggested impressing the men into the 
task of making a jump. 

They lacked implements, but they had plenty of 
enthusiasm, and by rolling huge snowballs together 
they managed to achieve a satisfactory makeshift. 
When it was completed and smoothed off to her 
taste, she proceeded to climb the hill for a trial. 

Tommy implored her not to do it. “ Let Aishton 
or Keyster or somebody break his fool neck — not 
you! ” he wailed. 

She merely smiled, and examined the fastenings 
of her skis. When she reached the summit she 
turned and blew a kiss toward them from her slim 
fingers. Then, without further delay, she began 
the descent. Bending low as her speed increased, 
she reached the jump. A quick spring, and she 
soared in the air like a swallow, striking the ground 
again a rod or two below and skimming on with 
perfect grace to the foot of the hill. 

“•Holy smoke!” exclaimed Tommy, his eyes 
widening. 

Then a certain hardness settled over his features, 
and he turned to climb rapidly up the hill. To 
laughing queries as to his purpose, he made no an¬ 
swer. But a moment later they understood. He 
was not going to be outdone by a mere slip of a 
girl in a gray lamb’s wool toque! 



THE GREEN SCARF 


166 

He started well, and he took the jump satisfac¬ 
torily. But when he struck the declivity below- 

Afterward Anne soothed him with her explanation 
that the snow had thawed somewhat, becoming wet 
and sticky, which made his skis catch, overbalanc¬ 
ing him. Whatever the cause, Tommy was merely 
conscious of the skies coming down to smite him. 
He was buffeted in every inch of his anatomy, and 
his legs seemed no longer a part of him. He pulled 
himself together, and dug the snow out of his eyes. 

“ S-some tumble! ” he muttered bravely when the 
crowd reached him. 

“You’ve scraped your forehead!” cried Miss 
Manard. Tommy grinned. He would cheerfully 
have suffered far worse to evoke such tenderness 
as he felt in her voice. He tried to say as much. 

But she was too occupied in wiping the blood 
away and removing his skis to pay any attention 
to such nonsense. And when he persisted she turned 
to the others: “ I think that ought to do us for the 
day, people — don’t you? It’ll be dark before we 
get home.” 

It was considerably colder, despite Miss Manard’s 
amiable theory of the “thaw,” and the others as¬ 
sented readily. Tommy smiled, or, rather, he tried 
to smile; a rapidly enlarging lip made smiling im¬ 
practicable. Marvels had certainly been accom¬ 
plished in a short time. The rather difficult alien 




THE GREEN SCARF 


167 


of the morning had by late afternoon became un¬ 
disputed mistress of the party. It was she who 
superintended the packing of their paraphernalia 
and saw that all refuse from their luncheon was 
neatly burned, and when Tommy essayed to climb 
into the driver’s seat it was she who prevented, in¬ 
forming him quietly that Mr. Aishton would drive, 
he — Tommy — needing repose. 

Tommy felt sadly shaken up in all truth, but he 
was not nearly so hors de combat as he permitted 
himself to appear. It was undeniably pleasant, if 
a trifle humiliating, to allow himself to be sympa¬ 
thized with and tucked in very gently among the 
furs. He blushed at the unfeeling gibes of the less 
temerarious Aishton, but he was quite satisfied with 
the price of ignominy when it brought Anne’s con¬ 
dolence and Anne herself beside him. 

The forest rang with gay chatter during the first 
part of the drive home. But toward the end, as the 
sun went down, it grew extremely cold, and silence 
fell among them. As the purple shadows lengthened 
in the trees, the only sounds were the frosty jingle 
of the bells and the rhythmic pound of the horses’ 
hoofs on the frozen snow. 

In the discreet sanctity of the enveloping furs 
Tommy’s hand sought Miss Manard’s. And pres¬ 
ently, with a shiver at his own temerity, he found 
it. His eyes met hers at the same time. He did not 



THE GREEN SCARF 


168 

hold either for long. But there was time for a 
quick pressure of the one and the briefest of ques¬ 
tions in the flash of the other. Then she turned 
her head, and her hand slipped away. He assured 
himself fervently that he was a fool for thinking 
such a thing, but a conviction persisted of a response 
in her fingers and an answering gleam in her eyes. 
He dallied with the thought. Why, if it gave him 
such an ecstasy of pleasure, should he not dally 
with it, he asked himself. Even if, conceivably, he 
were mistaken in the fact, there was still pleasure 
in the thought. 

A few minutes later his reverie ended. With a 
mellow flourish of the bells, they drew up at the 
cabin and trooped in to the warm comfort of lamp¬ 
light and smoldering fire. 

Mrs. Cass innocently awoke their frozen risibili¬ 
ties with her first words. “ I do hope you took good 
care of Miss Manard,” she said, bustling about with 
hot tea. 

Marion, disposing of a huge piece of cake, be¬ 
came hysterical. “Look at Tom’s face, mother. 
See how Miss Manard took care of him! ” 

Tommy submitted ungraciously to a maternal in¬ 
spection of his countenance, and “kidding by the 
entire company,” as he expressed it. Anne, how¬ 
ever, came to his support with a brief but effective 
observation that “no one else tried it.” That ef- 



THE GREEN SCARF 


169 


fectually changed the topic, and a little later the 
party separated to dress for dinner. 

At this point, Edith Byram came into the pic¬ 
ture. During tea she had been to some extent in 
shadow. But when she floated into the dining 
room, as fragile and lovely as an orchid and gowned 
as delicately. Tommy’s eyes sparkled in apprecia¬ 
tion. His mouth opened to tell her, in his frank 
way, the impression she had made upon him. But 
before he could speak he caught sight of Anne 
standing behind her in the doorway. 

He could not possibly have described a detail of 
what she wore, from slippers to coiffure. He saw 
only a general vision of perfection, limned in old 
rose and ivory. His tongue was tied. He could 
have complimented Edith, but complimenting Anne 
was like spouting empty phrases at an exquisite land¬ 
scape. One merely offered homage — silently. 

At dinner he sat by Corinne Mason, charming, 
as always, in her simple, unaffected wholesomeness. 
But they were well through the roast before she 
succeeded in penetrating his rapt detachment and 
evoked from him an attention even decently cour¬ 
teous. Once started, however, he talked freely 
enough. But so impersonally! The note of “me” 
and “thee” which had once formed the staple be¬ 
tween them was never sounded. He told her mi¬ 
nutely of his work — and interestingly, too. He 



iTo 


THE GREEN SCARF 


inquired, with punctiliousness, as to the ways she 
trod in the world. But not for an instant was he 
the Tommy who had strolled with her in the moon¬ 
light of a summer evening, underneath the old cam¬ 
pus elms, and pressed upon her, with vows too fer¬ 
vent to be literal, the stewardship of his fraternitv 
pin. 

After dinner they gathered around the great 
hearth for coffee and cigarettes, luxuriating in the 
genial shadows. The stern north wind rushed and 
whistled in the pines outside, accentuating the pleas¬ 
ant comfort of the fireside. 

Miss Byram presently took her place at the piano. 
And from her throat soft, crooning melodies began 
to pour in a voice of liquid silver. Her long fingers 
floated on over the keys into bits of MacDowell, a 
little Grieg, a snatch of Debussy, and when the 
spirit of these Northmen grew too militant she 
shifted suddenly to a plaintive lullaby, born on the 
beaches of the Mediterranean, and again some name¬ 
less, wistful song of the plantations. 

She sang superbly, with that artless spontaneity 
which is the fruit of years of weary labor, and each 
time she essayed to stop they urged her on. The 
old spell seized Tommy again. When, for variety, 
she slipped into a dashing, barbaric marching chant 
from Hungary his pulses quickened. And when, 
for finale, her silken contralto softened in a haunt- 



THE GREEN SCARF 


171 


ing ballad, poignant with the mysterious, ineffable 
melancholy of the Celt, his eyes were moist. The 
song was of fairies and still waters and misty 
legends of days long dead, and she herself seemed 
strangely compact of its quality. One forgot the 
piano as a thing of wood and wires. One forgot 
Edith as on the whole a rather indolent and inef¬ 
fectual person of flesh and blood. She was music 
incarnate. There was only a consciousness of sweet 
witchery, numbing the senses, exalting the soul. 
For though she scarcely knew it herself, Edith pos¬ 
sessed that magic of genius which dulls the mind 
to means; she was the artist veritably. 

But she knew when to stop. With a far-away 
smile she rose from the instrument, and no im¬ 
portunities could prevail upon her to continue. 

It was, perhaps, an anticlimax, though one of 
which life is made, that caused the phonograph to 
succeed her. A lively tune, snapping with syncopa¬ 
tion, and played on a battery of full-throated ac¬ 
cordions, shattered the cathedral quiet which had 
settled on the party. 

The effect was electric. Rugs were rolled up and 
furniture quickly pushed to one side. In a twinkling 
vague stirrings of the soul had given place to the 
nimble patter of feet. The serene purity of the 
dominant third had faded, crushed, before the vig¬ 
orous onslaught of rhythm from a supposititious 



172 


THE GREEN SCARF 


Hawaii. Reverence at the high altar was done; 
carnival was on. 

Tommy danced first with Corinne Mason. The 
ceremony was perfunctory — which she, without re¬ 
sentment, quite understood. As soon as was decent 
he sought out Anne. She was with Aishton. The 
latter’s reluctance to give her up was plainly in¬ 
spired by more than mere politeness. In another 
moment Tommy knew why. 

“ Gee, but you’re a good dancer! ” he exclaimed 
as they waited for the crank to be turned for an¬ 
other encore. 

She laughed. “ Surprised ? ” 

“Of course not. Only-” 

“Only what?” 

“Well, I — I hadn’t thought of you as a danc¬ 
ing girl somehow.” He blushed in confusion. 

“I’ve told you often, Tommy. You really don’t 
know me at all.” 

The music started up its blare again, and Tommy 
ceased thinking in the utter satisfaction of motion. 
It was not until three numbers had been played that 
he became rational again. 

“Good Lord!” he cried, appalled. “I’ve sim¬ 
ply got to dance with the other girls.” The same 
resolve had become increasingly compelling to the 
other men, and good intentions were not much 
longer left in his own hands. 




THE GREEN SCARF 


173 


Politely, and quite woodenly, he favored each 
damsel in the room, and at the first feasible oppor¬ 
tunity returned to Anne. But there was time for 
only one perfect dance before the clock sounded ten, 
which, by tacit consent and the wise dictum of Mrs. 
Cass, was the hour for retiring. 

“Shucks!” muttered Tommy gloomily. 

Miss Manard’s smile was enigmatic. “ Good 
night, Tommy.” 

Aishton, with whom Tommy shared quarters, was 
voluble in his enthusiasm. “That Manard girl is 
certainly therel” he declared when they were alone. 

“Uh-huh!” Tommy was not responsive. He 
felt it profanation for any one else to discuss her, 
even in enthusiasm. 

Aishton was undeterred. “ She can do every¬ 
thing. Never saw a girl like her. And Marion 
says she’s a high mucky-muck in your company, 
too.” 

Aishton suddenly realized that he was being 
snubbed. “ You’ve got a swell-looking face, Cass! ” 
he chuckled. 

Tommy turned out the light. “So? Well—* 
nature didn’t make it that way.” 

Mrs. Cass, after seeing to it that her young 
charges were located and comfortable, returned to 
her husband, awaiting her by the embers of the 



174 


THE GREEN SCARF 


fire. There were matters of moment to discuss 
with him. 

“ Well,” she began briskly, poising herself on the 
arm of his chair, “ what do you think? ” 

He lighted a fresh cigar deliberately. “ Sur¬ 
prised— and pleased,” he replied. 

“Why pleased?” 

“Remarkably attractive,” he murmured as if to 
himself. “Don’t you agree?” 

“I do, indeed; but why are you pleased?” 

“ She might not have been.” 

She was annoyed. “ Henry, do be serious! ” 

“Certainly, my dear.” 

“Do you want him to marry her?” 

He reflected for a moment. “Umn — I suppose 
not.” 

“Well — he will if we don’t do something.” 

“What would you suggest?” 

She passed her hand over her smooth forehead. 
“I — I don’t know. He doesn’t pay any attention 
to the other girls.” 

“ She constitutes rather severe competition, 
doesn’t she?” He laughed grimly. 

“Suppose he says he means to marry her — 
what?” 

He chuckled. “ She may not want him.” 

Mrs. Cass resented the idea. “Not want Tom? 
Why-” 




THE GREEN SCARF 


175 


“ My dear, Tom is incomparable, of course. But 
women have odd tastes. In no other way can I 
account for your taking me.” 

“ Please be serious, Henry. Suppose she does 
want him. What will you do about it?” 

The smile faded from Mr. Cass’ lips. “Take 
my advice, Mary, and sit tight. The boy’s proven 
already that he’s master of his own fate.” 

“ He’s a mere child! ” 

“ Granted; but why all this alarm over his pos¬ 
sible affection for — an extraordinarily charming 
young woman?” 

“Do you mean to say that you could see him 
marry that girl without lifting a finger to prevent 
it?” 

“ On the contrary, my dear. If he is in love with 
her, and she with him, I shall so far restrain my 
instinctive conservatism as to confer my paternal 
blessing upon them.” He puffed silently for a mo¬ 
ment on his cigar. Then he added, with a dry 
chuckle: “ I have learned to accept facts of record, 
my dear.” 

She was thoughtful. “ Do you think she cares 
for — for himself alone?” 

“I’ve told you that I don’t know whether she 
cares for him at all.” 

“Of course you don’t. But assuming that she 
does. Do you think there’s an ulterior motive?” 



176 


THE GREEN SCARF 


He flicked the ash from his cigar. “ Nine-tenths 
of a banker’s business is judging character,” he 
said slowly. “ I — I think I should extend con¬ 
siderable credit to that young woman—without 
collateral.” 

“ She may be a perfectly sweet girl, but we don’t 
know anything of her origin or her people or-” 

“Does one marry either of those things?” 

“You can be sarcastic if you like, Henry,” said 
Mrs. Cass stiffly, “but one certainly does. Tom has 
been brought up to certain standards and ideals. 
He’s become a part of a certain kind of society. If 
his wife is from an entirely different kind, then I’m 
quite sure-” 

Mr. Cass rose and stretched himself. “I think, 
my dear,” he said with a yawn, “ that you’re cross¬ 
ing your bridges before you come to them. She 
may be hunting for bigger game than your darling 
baby.” 




CHAPTER X 


T HE days were winged, as pleasant days are. 

Toward the end of their stay, nearly every 
one grew conscious of the speed with which time 
flew, and sought to fill the last precious hours to 
overflowing. 

It was late in the afternoon of the last day, and 
the entire party, even to the lethargic Miss Byram, 
was plodding homeward, after a long hike through 
the snow. It chanced that Tommy and Anne 
brought up the rear. 

To the former it was an opportunity not to be 
lost. The straps of his snowshoes began to develop 
an astonishing amount of insecurity, and a quite 
unwonted interest in things along the trail pos¬ 
sessed him. To put it mildly, he dawdled. Miss 
Manard found herself obliged to halt every few 
yards. 

It was not, however, until the rest of the party 
had" vanished even out of earshot that she began 
to suspect his motives. 

“That’s the fifth time that strap has come un¬ 
done,” she declared crossly. 

He straightened up, grinning. “ Good liT strap! ” 
he murmured. 


177 


178 


THE GREEN SCARF 


She grasped the situation then. “Tommy! 
You’re outrageous! Do hurry!” 

“Hurry nothing! I know the way home all 
right.” 

“Oh — what will they think?” 

“A lot I care,” said Tommy lightly. “ It’s what 
you think.” 

“Now, Tommy-” 

He took her by the arm. “Here’s a dry log. 
Let’s sit down a bit. I — I’m tired.” 

Irresolutely she suffered herself to yield to his 
bidding. “You’re a very naughty boy!” 

His eyes looked into hers, unsmiling. “ It’s been 
wonderful having you here. I — I wonder if you’ve 
liked it as much as I have ? ” 

“ Oh, indeed I have! ” she declared warmly. 

He frowned. “I don’t mean just on general 
principles. I mean, have you liked my being here 
as much as I’ve liked your-” 

She turned her head away, interrupting: “ Why, 
of course I have.” 

He seized her and swung her toward him almost 
roughly. “I fell in love with you, Anne, a long 
time ago. I didn’t really know it, though, until 
Burroughs entered the game. And now — this week 
up here has made me know it better.” 

The question was suggested rather than uttered: 





THE GREEN SCARF 


179 


“ The other girls, mostly. Tve been crazy about 
each one of 'em. Even thought I was engaged to 
Corinne once. They’re crackin’ fine girls, too. But, 
gee! Beside you they’re — they’re-” He strug¬ 

gled for an adequate simile. 

“Oh, Tommy, what nonsense! I’m not as good 
a sport as Nell, and I can’t sing at all, and — and 
there aren’t many girls as lovely as Corinne.” 

He nodded stubbornly. “ I’ll grant all that. But 
they — they’re parasites. They just play. You’re 
twice as attractive as any of them. But that isn’t 
what gets me. The fact is, you count for some¬ 
thing in the world. Why, Anne, do you know — you 
— you’re the only girl I ever really looked up to!” 

“ What a sentimental boy you are! ” She smiled 
at him a little wistfully. 

“I tell you I’m practical,” he answered firmly. 
Then he grinned with the boyishness which made 
for much of his charm. “Can’t you see it, Anne? 
It’s a cinch to find girls you can love. But when 
you find one you can respect, too-” 

“And you respect me after all I told you?” 

“ Poppycock! ” he exclaimed. “ I don’t care 
what you used to think.” 

“Suppose I still think it?” 

“You mean—you mean Burroughs?” His face 
hardened. 

“ I didn’t say that. I said suppose ” 





18o 


THE GREEN SCARF 


He dug into the snow with his staff. “I can’t 
compete against him,” he muttered presently. “ Not 
on any reasonable grounds. He’s better than I am, 
any way you look at it. But being in love isn’t be¬ 
ing reasonable. I-Oh, shucks! ” he burst out, 

in a changed voice. “ I’m crazy about you, Anne, 
and that’s all there is to it! ” 

She remained silent, gazing down steadfastly at 
her feet. 

“Haven’t I any chance?” he asked mournfully, 
when the pause had begun to seem interminable. 

Still she was silent. 

“Not just a little bit o’ one?” he persisted. 

Suddenly she faced him, and a rare smile flashed 
in her eyes. “Tommy,” she said, her voice trem¬ 
bling, “you’re the sweetest boy in all the world. 
But you’re a perfectly clean slate. Put something 
on it! ” 

He scarcely knew what happened next. There 
was a sudden explosion in the furs at his side, and 
a momentary feeling of tender arms around him — 
and Anne was standing a yard away, suggesting 
rather breathlessly, that it was late. 

Dazed, he rubbed his cheek. Unless he were 
quite insane, it still burned with the flashing print 
of hot lips. 

He rose stiffly from the fallen log, like a man in 
a trance. Anne was already on the move. He could 




THE GREEN SCARF 


181 


see her lithe figure gliding away through the pur¬ 
pling shadows. 

A profound sigh escaped him. Then his teeth 
clicked, and he set off in pursuit. “ I’ll do it! ” he 
gritted through clenched jaws. “I’ll fill it full!” 

The others, already gathered around the fire, 
awaiting their arrival, greeted their elaborate and 
ingenious explanations with polite but thinly veiled 
incredulity. Mrs. Cass, whose emotions were those 
exclusively of alarm, studied the faces of the pair 
as they removed their wraps, and made a great ado 
assisting them, in a patent effort to create diver¬ 
sion. 

Anne, with the feminine gift for histrionics, re¬ 
vealed nothing. Nor was Tommy’s countenance 
much more illuminating. Mrs. Cass was pro¬ 
foundly puzzled. There were moments when her 
son’s gloom was obvious, and her spirits rose. But 
again, as if in answer to some inward recollection, 
he became amazingly cheerful. And in between 
these two extremes of feeling appeared a singularly 
baffling grimness; if he chanced to speak while 
under its spell, his words were clipped off aggres¬ 
sively. 

Mrs. Cass could make nothing definite of the sit¬ 
uation. Of only one thing could she be sure: it 
was neither wholly hopeless nor wholly reassuring. 
Her first dismal certainties were succeeded by doubt. 



THE GREEN SCARF 


182 

and she was soon convinced that the last state was 
worse than the first. 

No doubts troubled the others. In the first place, 
the situation was commonplace, and in this in¬ 
stance not unexpected. And in the second, it was 
quite delightful, as true love always is to the young, 
not yet comprehending the manifold complexities 
which maturity discerns in that deceptively simple 
state. Furthermore, several of them were occupied 
with not dissimilar concerns of their own — and it 
was the last night. 

Dinner was spontaneous and riotously gay. When 
Edith Byram sang, it was in glittering arabesques, 
and the strings of the piano throbbed with laughter. 
Only once did wistfulness sound in her voice, and 
one might have observed that her eyes were on 
Mr. Aishton. 

Despite the necessity for early rising on the mor¬ 
row, and trunks yet unpacked, it was nearly mid¬ 
night before the old phonograph was allowed to 
cease its rasping accompaniment to tireless feet. 

There was much cheerful laughter, and not a lit¬ 
tle melancholy, resolutely suppressed, as they bade 
one another good night. 

Mr. Cass, standing aloof in one corner, held the 
hand which Anne extended to him. “ Might I have 
a chat with you when the others have gone?” he 
asked quietly. 



THE GREEN SCARF 


i ?3 


A shrewd smile played under his mustache at her 
start of surprise, and he turned to some one else 
without awaiting her reply. 

Mrs. Cass, always diligent in her duty, tarried 
for the departure of the last guest, bravely fighting 
off the yawns which assailed her. For a moment 
the situation looked difficult, and Anne felt herself 
reddening. But Mr. Cass was quite master of it. 
His eyes flashed a signal to his wife, and in a mo¬ 
ment he and Anne were left alone. 

He went to the fireplace and stirred the embers 
into a glow. “ Won’t you sit down ? ” he suggested, 
selecting a cigar from the box at his elbow. 

She took the chair he indicated, and waited, striv¬ 
ing to fortify herself against the painful interview 
she knew was coming. 

“ I want to talk to you about my son,” he began, 
watching the smoke rings form. 

“Yes?” Her voice sounded very far away and 
husky. 

“I feel, Miss Manard, that I know you rather 
better than either he or you suspect.” 

She moistened her dry lips, nodding. It was 
curious how extraordinarily young and helpless this 
calm old man made her feel. Worse — she almost 
felt guilty! 

“ Tom is not aware of it, but his letters have been 
largely about you.” Mr. Cass chuckled reflectively. 



184 


THE GREEN SCARF 


“It has been a privilege to know him.” Anne 
realized that the words were wretchedly stiff, but 
they were all she could bring herself to utter. 

“It is perhaps more of a privilege than you real¬ 
ize,” he went on quietly. “It is a very solemn 
privilege, I think, to be the star by which impres¬ 
sionable youth guides itself. Tommy idealizes you, 
Miss Manard.” 

She felt placed on the defensive. “Is that my 
fault, Mr. Cass?” 

He exhibited surprise. “Your fault? Certainly 
not.” 

“Then why do you tell me this?” She was re¬ 
solved to bring the encounter to a head. 

He considered for a moment, biting his lip. “ I 
am his father, Miss Manard. It is my duty to help 
him in so far as may be.” 

“Of course. But-” 

“I am asking your aid — your very important 
aid.” 

“I’m only too ready to give it,” she burst out 
honestly, “ but I-” 

It suddenly flashed upon him that she misunder¬ 
stood. An enigmatic smile twinkled under the 
heavy white brows. He laid a kindly hand on her 
shoulder. “Let me make myself clear, Miss Man¬ 
ard. Tommy has not written exclusively of you. 
Significant words have appeared. I sense new ideas 





THE GREEN SCARF 


185 


growing in him — dangerous, perhaps. He is de¬ 
veloping rapidly.” 

She nodded agreement, and a faint smile curved 
her lips. 

“Has it occurred to you that his development 
might run counter to the wishes of others? He is 
willful, you know. I feel a certain anxiety — per¬ 
haps because I know his heritage. The lad comes 
by his willfulness naturally.” 

“I see,” she murmured, a light beginning to 
dawn. 

“From what he has told me, and from what I 
have judged for myself, you are an extraordinary 
young woman. You have a level head on your 
shoulders. Is it too much to ask that you use your 
wit and your experience to steady my boy?” 

A sigh of relief escaped her. “Oh — is that 
all?” she said impulsively, but under her breath. 
And aloud: “ He’s had a great flood of new im¬ 

pressions— perhaps he hasn’t understood — not 
fairly. But he feels, Mr. Cass. He goes to the 
heart of things! Not reasonably, but like a poet.” 

The old man nodded. “Youth is quick and in¬ 
tolerant. I’m not afraid of his conclusions. He 
will see the world differently from me, of course; 
that is inevitable. I shall not worry about that. If 
he sees it honestly, I shall be content. No, Miss 
Manard, it is not where he is going that troubles 



186 


THE GREEN SCARF 


me. I cannot halt the spirit of the time which is 
in him, even if I would. And even if you could do 
it, I would not have you. All I ask is that he strike 
a working balance between his ideals and the terms 
of the game of life. I would have him aim high, 
but with his feet on the ground.” 

The old man’s quiet intensity made her feel 
curiously ineffectual. She could only nod in silent 
acquiescence. 

“ You will do as I ask, Miss Manard? You will 
try to guide him?” 

“ Indeed I shall, Mr. Cass. Though I’m not very 
wise myself.” 

He ignored her deprecation. “And will you do 
this — will you keep me acquainted with his do¬ 
ings? The boy is strangely proud. I fear that in 
the time of need I should be the last person he’d 
call upon. I would not have it so, Miss Manard; 
I would be the first. Do you understand?” 

She nodded thoughtfully. “ Yes, I think I do.” 

He held out his hand, and the shrewd old eyes 
gazed into hers. “Will you promise?” 

“Promise?” she repeated, striving to get hold of 
herself before the onslaught, the meaning of which 
was suddenly unmistakable. 

“Yes; that whatever befalls my boy of good or 
ill, you will tell me first.” 

“Have you the right to ask me that?” she fal- 



THE GREEN SCARE 


187 


tered, coloring deeply. 

“ I am very fond of him,” he answered gently. 

Stirred by a sudden impulse, she leaned over and 
kissed the old man lightly on the forehead. “ Don’t 
be afraid, dear Mr. Cass,” she whispered, and there 
was passionate earnestness in her voice. “He has 
no better friend on earth than I! ” 

Then she fled. She knew that if she tarried a mo¬ 
ment she would break down utterly. 



CHAPTER XI 


OMMY returned to work to find the factory 



A humming with unprecedented activity. While 
half the world was busily engaged in the task of 
mutual extermination, the other half was reaping 
the harvest. Never had the country known such 
unexampled prosperity, and the Champion Paint 
and Varnish Company was getting its full share. 

The old bottles had begun to crack under the im¬ 
mense pressure of the new wine. Tommy’s eyes 
were greeted by two imposing new factories, already 
up to the second story. All day the air vibrated with 
the constant pound of hammers, the intermittent 
rattle of pneumatic riveters. 

He found changes in the atmosphere of the plant 
inside, as well as those more material out of doors. 
Business was developing faster than man could be 
secured to handle it. Labor had become the most 
precious of all raw materials. And it was plain 
labor knew it. Men no longer labored in ever-pres¬ 
ent fear of discharge. Some, conscious of the 
change, experienced a just pride in their value and 
gained in dignity; others, according to their quality, 
wavered on the verge of insolence. Rumors of dis- 


188 


THE GREEN SCARF 


189 


affection and threats of strikes were forever in the 
air, like a choking dust. 

Tommy made the acquaintance of and grew 
rather intimate with a young man named Keller, a 
superintendent of construction on the new build¬ 
ings. With him he often discussed the new order 
of things. 

The engineer felt it too. “The bit’s in their 
teeth,” he declared. “ Capital had better watch out, 
or they’ll be running away with the whole she¬ 
bang ! ” 

More than once he was its victim specifically. 
“Oh, damn them!” he would bark in exasperation. 
“Time was when I fired a man for sloppy work. 
Now I apologize for even suggesting that I want 
anything else! ” 

Sometimes, when hard pressed, he would pour 
anecdotes, grimly ironic, into Tommy’s sympathetic 
ear. “They used to be afraid of me, Cass. Now 
if they feel like bawling me out I — I — why, bless 
your heart, I kiss their hands! ” 

But the thing which most of all drew Tommy to 
Keller was a kind of obstinate fairness, a sublime 
sense of humor which nothing could quite conquer. 
He voiced it forcibly one afternoon in early spring. 
Tommy met him as he crossed the yard on his way 
home. 

“Bound for dinner and the easy chair, eh?” 



THE GREEN SCARF 


190 

rasped the engineer, lighting a cigarette. 

“ Yes. Isn’t it about time you were quitting your¬ 
self?” 

Keller laughed dryly. “ I’m not quitting at all 
tonight.” 

“What’s the answer?” 

Keller flung his hand toward a group of workmen 
just piling on the waiting street car. “Those fel¬ 
lows quit when the whistle blows,” he growled. 
“ They’re union men. But I’m only a bachelor of 
arts and a C. E. / do what I’m told. I’m staying 
on the job tonight because I don’t dare to do any¬ 
thing else.” 

One cannot help respecting power. Tommy 
voiced his enthusiasm. “ It’s wonderful what those 
fellows have done, isn’t it? They’ll rule the world 
some day.” 

The engineer grunted. “They’d rule it now if 
they only knew their own strength. They call them¬ 
selves unions, but they’re not united. They’re al¬ 
ways fighting among themselves.” 

Tommy’s first experience of business recurred to 
him. “But isn’t that Capital’s fault?” he asked. 
“ Doesn’t it do a lot to keep labor divided ? ” 

Keller looked surprised. “Of course it does! 
And why not? But it’s getting harder every day. 
Why, I wish you could have heard the laugh those 
wops gave me when I politely suggested that they 



__ THE GREEN SCARF _ 191 

stay with me tonight.” He sighed ruefully. “ By 
thunder, I wish I belonged to a union! ” 

Tommy was serious about it, and persistent. “ It 
complicates business, maybe. But somehow I — I 
can’t help thinking it’ll work out better in the end.” 

Keller smiled tolerantly. “How so?” 

“Well, everything labor has it’s gotten by fight¬ 
ing for it. There’s not much been given gratis. 
As individuals they haven’t a chance. Look at the 
poor devils of clerks in stores. Taken by them¬ 
selves, they’re slaves, that’s what they are. And 
they’ll be treated like slaves, too. But when slaves 
organize — well, they’re something else, aren’t 
they ? ” 

“You bet they are. They — they’re czars!” 

Tommy’s eyes, afire with enthusiasm, strayed off 
over the fast-shadowing rooftops. “The idea gets 
me,” he cried. “ It — it’s like an army. Take those 
fellows alone, and they’re rather pitiful — so igno¬ 
rant and helpless. But put ’em together, and — why, 
it — it’s magnificent. For the life of me I can’t see 
how any sane person can object to unionism.” 

The engineer grinned. “You spout like a soap¬ 
box orator, Cass. Of course it’s all right in theory. 
It’s only when you bang your head into it—the way 
I am tonight—that you lose your taste for it. It 
isn’t so darned inspiring then! ” 

“But you’re not losing your taste for it!” cried 




192 


THE GREEN SCARF 


Tommy. “You just said so yourself. You want 
more unionism — not less. You’re mad simply be¬ 
cause you don’t belong to a union yourself.” 

The engineer nodded sagely. “I guess that’s it. 
By thunder, I’d like to be able to tell my bosses 
where to get off! ” 

“We’re just the miserable white-collar class!” 
said Tommy, with sudden contempt for himself. 

As Tommy left the factory he encountered Mr. 
Burroughs, belated and just getting into his 
roadster. 

“ Hop in,” said the latter. “ I’ll take you home.” 

It soon became evident that Mr. Burroughs felt 
expansive and conversational. “ What in the world 
were you and Keller talking about? I could see you 
from my window, waving your arms like a couple 
of wild men.” 

Tommy answered first with an explanation of the 
engineer’s predicament. Burroughs chuckled ap¬ 
preciatively. But as the rest of the conversation un¬ 
folded itself the smile left his face. 

He was silent for a block or two. Then he shifted 
the cigar in his teeth. “You’re getting hipped on 
that subject, Cass.” 

Tommy sought to argue, but the older man cut 
him short. “You’ve got a lot to learn, my boy.” 

Again Tommy tried to insert a word of extenu¬ 
ation, but with no better success. Mr, Burroughs 



THE GREEN SCARF 


193 


appeared to feel that the subject had been disposed 
of. 

When the car rolled up to the curb in front of his 
boarding house, Tommy got out quickly, expressing 
his thanks for the kindness. Mr. Burroughs waved 
his words aside. Then, as if in afterthought, he 
said: “ Be in my office at ten tomorrow, will you ? ” 

With a sudden clash of gears, the machine disap¬ 
peared in the dusk. 

At the appointed time next morning Tommy 
opened the door of the president's private office. 

“ Morning!" grunted Mr. Burroughs, without 
looking up from the roll of blue prints he was study¬ 
ing. “Got a little postgraduate course in human 
nature for you." 

He said no more, and Tommy was left to digest 
this cryptic observation as best he might. It was 
not many minutes, however, before there was a 
knock on the door, and the office boy entered, bear¬ 
ing a card. 

Mr. Burroughs gave it a hasty glance. “ Show 
him in," he said, in a curiously flat voice. 

The visitor proved to be a stocky little man, with 
black, oily hair plastered above a round and very 
red face. His eyes were small and snapping, like 
jet pins stuck in an apple. 

He was affability itself. “Mornin’, Mr. Bur¬ 
roughs !" 



194 


THE GREEN SCARF 


A cold invitation to be seated was the only reply. 
Then the wondering Tommy was enlightened to the 
extent of a curt introduction: “Cass, this is Mr. 
Slattery.” 

The newcomer extended a spongy hand and said: 
“Pleased t’ meetcha!” rather absently, Tommy 
thought. Then he addressed Mr. Burroughs, not 
quite as affably as before: “I thought this was be¬ 
tween you an’ me?” 

Burroughs’ lip curled ever so slightly. “Mr. 
Cass is my assistant. It is quite safe, I assure you.” 

Mr. Slattery shrugged his shoulders. “ Suit yer- 
self,” he grunted, throwing one fat leg over the 
other and licking the disintegrating leaves of his 
cigar. “Well, what was it ye was wantin’ to see me 
about ?” 

Tommy could almost imagine that sparks flashed 
from Mr. Burroughs’ flinty eyes. The latter leaned 
forward, his elbows resting on the desk. “ I received 
a letter from your office concerning the electrical 
work on our new buildings.” 

“ Oh, that! ” Mr. Slattery leaned back, - his 
thumbs in his vest, smiling benignly. “Sure! Ye 
see, the fixtures that’s been put in was made by a 
scab shop.” 

Suppressed wrath trembled in Mr. Burroughs’ 
voice. “You knew that when you put them in.” 

Mr. Slattery grinned. “Aw, don’t say that, Mr. 



THE GREEN SCARF 


195 


Burroughs. I wouldn’t do sich a thing!” 

“It was a deplorable — er — accident, I sup¬ 
pose?” 

“ Sure it was.” Mr. Slattery’s unpleasant grin 
broadened. “ It was an accident. Somebody should 
’a’ told you.” 

“You’re a liar,” said Mr. Burroughs evenly. 
“ You let those fixtures go in deliberately, just so 
you could hold us up afterward.” 

Mr. Slattery shrugged his shoulders again. 
“ Have it yer own way. But you knew as well as I 
do that a union man ain’t allowed to hang scab fix¬ 
tures.” 

“Well, they’re in.” 

“ Yep, they’re in! ” 

“ What are you going to do about it ? ” 

Mr. Slattery gave up the attempt at salvage on 
his cigar and extracted a fresh one from his pocket. 
“That’s a foolish question, Mr. Burroughs. You 
know the answer yerself.” 

“If the fixtures stay, you call out the men?” 

“Exactly.” 

“ In other words, I’ve got to rip out all that stuff, 
junk it, get new, and rehang it?” 

Mr. Slattery held up a deprecating hand. “I 
don’ want to, Mr. Burroughs. I gotta! That’s the 
rules of the organization, ye know.” 

“Why?” As the president put the question, 



196 


THE GREEN SCARF 


Tommy was conscious of a quick glance sidelong 
at himself. 

“ Because we gotta hold up union principles. We 
gotta fight scab labor all the time. A good union 
man’s gotta see that the union label’s in everything 

he wears or uses-” 

“ In everything other people use, too! ” 

“Sure. That’s reasonable, ain’t it?” 

Mr. Burroughs smiled frostily. “Oh, absolutely 
reasonable. You’ve got to keep the standard up.” 

“ That’s it ’xactly.” 

“Um! But don’t you think- Isn’t putting 

me to all that trouble and — and waste just a little 

— er — unfair?” 

“ There’s the principle, Mr. Burroughs.” 

“Of course. But isn’t there some way of — ah 

— getting around the principle?” 

Mr. Slattery rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I 
don’t know about that.” 

Mr. Burroughs’ lip twisted shrewdly. “ The men 

— the rank and file — don’t know about these fix¬ 
tures, do they?” 

A flash of appreciative humor lighted Mr. Slat¬ 
tery’s porcine eyes. Then he became very judicious. 
“It wouldn’t be right for me to say, Mr. Bur¬ 
roughs.” 

“ No, I suppose not.” 

“You understan’ how it would be-” 






THE GREEN SCARF 


197 


“ Oh, yes, of course. I was merely trying to esti¬ 
mate how much this accident has cost these good 
men.” 

“Cost?” Mr. Slattery exhibited bewilderment. 

“ I mean,” went on Mr. Burroughs smoothly, “ if 
we tear out those fixtures and rehang them, it will 
mean twice as much work. Now, at eighty cents 
an hour-” 

“Eighty-five,” corrected Mr. Slattery, beginning 
to perceive the drift of the conversation. 

“All right. Well, what does it come to?” 

“Five hundred dollars,” said Mr. Slattery 
promptly. 

“That would soothe all injured feelings and up¬ 
hold the glorious principles of unionism, would it?” 

Mr. Slattery appreciated humor, even when it was 
bitterly sarcastic humor. He feigned to be grieved. 
“ Oh, not the principle, Mr. Burroughs. Not that. 
But we’re fair. We don’t want to hold up the 
buildin’ on a technicality. If you’ll just-” 

“We understand each other, Slattery,” said Mr. 
Burroughs abruptly. “ Kindly make out a receipt.” 

Again Tommy was conscious that the president 
was watching him. 

Mr. Slattery knocked the ash from his cigar. 
“You won’t need a receipt, ol’ man,” he said softly. 

Mr. Burroughs’ expression conveyed nothing. 
“ I suppose not. A check will do as well.” 





198 


THE GREEN SCARF 


Mr. Slattery’s eyes became pinholes. “We don’t 
care for checks, if it’s just the same to you.” 

“Why not?” Mr. Burroughs’ simulation of as¬ 
tonishment was perfect enough to deceive Tommy. 

Not so Mr. Slattery. His thick lower lip pro¬ 
truded and his voice was harsh: “ ’Cause I don’t 

like ’em — see?” 

Mr. Burroughs shrugged his shoulders. “Each 
to his taste.” With a quick movement, he pulled out 
a drawer of his desk and tossed a roll of bills across 
the plate-glass surface. “ Count ’em,” he said 
briefly. 

Mr. Slattery, shifting his cigar from one side of 
his mouth to the other and blinking his eyes against 
the smoke, leaned forward for the money. Very 
deliberately his pudgy thumb counted off the crisply 
crackling bills. 

“ Correct,” he said finally, and held out his hand. 

For an instant Mr. Burroughs hesitated. Then 
his black frown dissolved in an uncontrollable smile, 
and he accepted the extended hand. 

“You’re the cheerfulest scamp I ever met!” he 
exclaimed feelingly. 

One of Mr. Slattery’s little eyes fluttered sig¬ 
nificantly. “The boys’ll sure appreciate this,” he 
said smoothly, thrusting the roll of bills into an in¬ 
side pocket. Then he remembered Tommy. “ Goo’- 
by, Mr. Cass. Glad to have metcha.” 



THE GREEN SCARF 


199 


Tommy merely nodded, his mouth open. 

Mr. Burroughs waited until the door closed. 
Then he leaned back in his chair, his hands clasped 
behind his head. “ Well, what do you think of it?” 
He smiled sardonically as he put the question. 

Wrath flared up in Tommy uncontrollably. 
“Gosh! Why didn’t you give him a ride on your 
boot?” 

“ Because, my dear boy, that pleasure would prove 
altogether too expensive.” 

Tommy gritted his teeth. “ It—it’s an outrage! ” 

“ Of course. But what are you going to do about 
it?” 

“I — I’d fight ’em to a finish! I’d be hanged if 
I’d stand for such blackmail! ” 

“That’s theory, my lad. Practically you’d find 
it cheaper to pay the graft than to fight. As a mat¬ 
ter of fact, it’s figured into the cost of the building 
before we start. It’s perfectly well understood.” 

“You mean it — it’s common?” 

“ It’s universal,” said Mr. Burroughs bluntly. “ I 
had you in here for a purpose, Cass. Perhaps you 
see now why practical men find it hard to enthuse 
about trade unions ? ” 

Tommy ran his fingers through his hair. “But 
the principle’s all right, isn’t it?” 

“ Oh, nothing against that. Confine your enthu¬ 
siasm to principles, and there’ll be no trouble.” 



200 


THE GREEN SCARF 


Tommy struggled for an analogy, which seemed 
always to elude him. Suddenly he found it. “ Isn’t 
it just like government? The city’s run by grafters 
and crooks. But that isn’t the fault of democracy. 
It’s the fault of the people who — who don’t ap¬ 
preciate what democracy is. Those bills you gave 
Slattery — the men’ll never see them, will they?” 

“ Don’t make me laugh! ” 

“Well, some day they’ll wake up. They’ll throw 
the grafters out. They’ll-” 

Mr. Burroughs shook his head. “I doubt it, 
Cass. They’re a lot of sheep. And, besides, you 
mustn’t forget this: Even if leeches like Slattery 
line their pockets privately, they usually boost 
wages, too.” 

“Don’t the men care how wages are boosted?” 

“Not a bit. No more than we care if our city 
officials give us well-paved streets, good car serv¬ 
ice, and a reasonable degree of personal comfort, 
how much of a good thing they make out of it 
privately.” 

Tommy sighed. “I’d hate to believe that.” 

Mr. Burroughs leaned across the desk, emphasiz¬ 
ing his words with sharp thrusts of his finger. “ I’m 
a few years older than you are, Cass. For that rea¬ 
son, I’m going to preach at you. You’ve finished 
the undergraduate part of life. You’ve been sizing 
things up long enough. Now you’ve got to make 




THE GREEN SCARF 


201 


decisions. Like every healthy, normal young man, 
you stand between two roads. If you take the one of 
sentiment and decide to be a poet, I’ll not quarrel 
with you; but your usefulness in the paint business 
will be at an end. I think it’s about time you were 
throwing in your vote for the practical, in more 
ways than one.” 

The words were precise and unmistakable, but 
Tommy was unpleasantly conscious that they car¬ 
ried a double significance. 

“ Think it over, Cass,” finished Mr. Burroughs 
abruptly, turning to his work. 

Tommy rose. Twice his lips opened and closed 
silently. Then he said: “I’ll try to do the right 
thing.” He spoke quite respectfully and with such 
obvious ingenuousness that any suspicion of cant 
was unthinkable. 

But as the eyes of the two met they were like the 
poles of a high-potential current. The atmosphere 
fairly tingled with challenge. 



CHAPTER XII 


HE disillusionment of that encounter with Mr. 



JL Burroughs threw Tommy back upon himself, 
and at the first opportunity he paid a delayed visit 
upon the all but forgotten Frembach. 

He went out to the chemist’s house on Sunday 
afternoon. The old man was in his laboratory, but, 
contrary to precedent and expectation, he was not 
working. Seated in an old rocking-chair, his slip¬ 
pered feet propped up on the window sill, he was 
puffing meditatively his corncob. 

“Well, how goes it?” was Tommy’s cheerful 
introduction. 

The chemist looked up, scowling. “I suppose 
you think it’s ’bout time I was producing some¬ 
thing?” 

Tommy hastened to reassure him: “You’ve got 
all the time in the world, you know.” 

The old man shook his head. “I’m going to 
quit.” 

“Quit? Why, what in the——” 

“ I’ve found an eosin violet that’s as stable as the 
color of quartz but who the dickens wants an eosin 
violet — just now?” He laughed harshly. 


202 


THE GREEN SCARF 


203 


“But you’re not sure of that,” urged Tommy. 
“ Why not-” 

The chemist interrupted him: “ I’ve been wast¬ 
ing my time. Spending your money, and nothing to 
show for it.” 

“Nonsense! You’ve worked your head off.” 

“ It’s the war. I — I can’t think of anything else. 
I dream about it nights. Making colors for women’s 

dresses seems so — so- Ugh, it makes me 

ashamed! ” 

Tommy was bewildered. This was a novel phase 
for Frembach. He did not know what to say. 

The chemist’s feet came down from the window 
with a crash, and he clenched his fists passionately. 
“ This is no time for dyes! ” he cried. “ The world 
wants guns and ships and soldiers. Death — not 
vanity! ” 

"But-” 

“ Don’t try to argue with me, boy! I’m as mad 
as any dog in bedlam! I tell you, I’ve thought of 
nothing else. I’m sick. I’m disgusted with myself. 
Better men than I are giving their lives to destroy 
the evil spirit abroad in the world, and I putter with 
pretty colors. Faugh! ” 

Tommy was aghast. “But we aren’t at war!” 
he exclaimed, literal as always. 

The old man leaped to his feet, beating the air. 
“ We should be,” he bellowed, the reverberations of 






204 


THE GREEN SCARF 


his deep voice crashing against the walls of the little 
laboratory. “That’s what sickens me. The poor 
devils abroad are fighting our battles, and we lie 
awake nights scheming to make money out of it. 
I’m too old to carry a rifle. The only thing I have 
is a brain, and I’m using that to make some fat hog 
of an American rich! ” 

“You needn’t talk about America like that,” said 
Tommy stiffly. 

“And why not? I’m an American myself. I’ve 
been one longer than you have. I — I’m ashamed 
of it! Smug chatter about neutrality—and dyes. 
Good Lord!” 

Tommy was never subtle. “Well, what do you 
want to do about it?” he demanded practically. 

The chemist ignored the question. “ I’m ashamed 
of my country,” he said, more quietly. “I’m 
ashamed of myself. I’ve spent your money, and 
nothing to show for it. I — I haven’t been fair to 
you.” 

It occurred to Tommy that Frembach was em¬ 
barrassed. The old man’s feverish words seemed 
to conceal, and yet to suggest, something quite 
definite. Characteristically he plunged. And, as so 
often happened, his own lack of finesse evoked can¬ 
dor in his companion. 

“You’re keeping something from me,” he said 
bluntly. 



THE GREEN SCARF 


205 


Frembach started. “Why, how did you know?” 

“What is it?” 

The old man sighed. “I— I couldn’t help it. 
The war-” 

“You’ve found something?” 

Frembach nodded, his wrinkled old face oddly 
contorted. “It came about naturally, in a way. 
I — I didn’t start out deliberately. Really I didn’t.” 
A sudden defiance flashed in his eyes. “ But I’m not 
sorry! ” 

“Sorry for what?” 

The old man averted his gaze. “ Sit down, Mr. 
Cass,” he murmured. “ I’ll tell you the whole story. 
I — I’ve been meaning to for some time.” 

“I wish you would!” exclaimed Tommy ferv¬ 
ently. 

Frembach hesitated. “You understand, it — it 
was an accident, in a way.” 

“ Go ahead. Spill it.” 

“Well, chemistry is like the trunk of a tree. It 
all starts from the same seed. But the branches 
split off in different directions — tremendously dif¬ 
ferent. Sometimes they shoot off before one’s quite 
realized what’s happened.” 

Tommy grinned. “I know. I monkeyed with 
chemistry in college myself. It did queer things 
sometimes.” 

Frembach went on professorily: “ Modern syn- 




206 


THE GREEN SCARF 


thetic dyes originate in coal tar. That’s the seed. 
Out of it grow benzol, xylol, toluol — things like 
that. They’re the big branches. Then off of them 
sprout smaller branches — eosin violet, all sorts of 
bright, harmless, pleasing colors.” 

The quality of the chemist’s voice held Tommy 
gripped in fascination. The old man’s singular 
earnestness was impressive. 

“But there are other branches,” he continued, 
“not — not so harmless. Oh, I shouldn’t have 
played with them, boy, I know I shouldn’t, but I 
did! Toluol-” 

“ Sounds like a chewing gum!” laughed Tommy, 
instinctively anxious to relieve the curious tension. 

But the old chemist was not to be diverted. “ Glyc¬ 
erin’s a harmless thing. And old Mother Earth. 
Even nitric acid has few terrors. But put ’em to¬ 
gether— dynamite’s not harmless! ” He was silent 
for a moment, gnawing at his mustache. “ The man 
who discovered that made millions out of it. You 
know what he did with them?” 

“ No.” 

“ He left them to — to found a Peace Prize. His 
name was Nobel. Blood money, if ever there 
was! ” 

The old man lost himself in reflection. Then, 
heaving a profound sigh, he went on: “Toluol 
sounds to you like a confection. Well, sometimes 




THE GREEN SCARF 


20 7 


it’s even more harmless than that. It’s in the clothes 

we wear. And then, again- Look here!” With 

a quick movement, he pulled out a drawer at his 
elbow and gave Tommy a handful of some granu¬ 
lated substance dull amber in color, semitranslucent, 
greasy to the touch. “ There’s toluol in this — and 
other things — enough to blow up this building!” 

Tommy fingered the yellow flakes gingerly. He 
began to feel that he was actually closeted with a 
lunatic. His lips were unaccountably dry. “It — 
it’s very pretty,” he said, merely because he had to 
say something. 

Frembach smiled at his expression. “You 
needn’t be alarmed. That stuff’s as safe as lemon 
candy. See, there’s nothing to be afraid of! ” He 
whipped a match from his pocket, and, pouring the 
yellow powder onto the table, ignited it. It burned 
brightly, with thick, creamy smoke. 

“Wh — what are you going to do with it?” 
whispered Tommy, in an awed voice. 

The chemist did not answer directly. “You see, 
it’s slower burning than cordite,” he declared, his 
professional enthusiasm asserting itself. “And it 
gives off its gases at a lower temperature. That 
saves the rifling of the guns.” 

For the first time, Tommy realized that the little 
laboratory was quite cluttered with firearms of all 
sorts. Frembach followed his wondering gaze. 




208 


THE GREEN SCARF 


“That’s part of the ‘miscellaneous’ in my ex¬ 
pense account,” he said apologetically. 

Tommy reverted to his first question. He was 
essentially concrete: “What are you going to do 
with it?” 

The old chemist scratched his head. “ It’s better 
than anything they’ve got now; I’m certain of that. 
But-” 

Tommy was emerging rapidly from his first coma 
of amazement. “If it is,” he declared firmly, 
“ Uncle Samuel ought to have it.” 

Frembach sneered: “He’s too busy making 
money. He won’t be interested.” 

Tommy shook his head. He was still young 
enough to cherish patriotic illusions. “ I don’t be¬ 
lieve it. Anyhow, we’ve got to give him the 
chance.” 

The old man looked dubious. “ I had thought of 
offering it to the French government. They’re quick 
to adopt new things. Turpinite is a French discov¬ 
ery, you know.” 

“Not yet,” said Tommy vigorously. “We’ll try 
the U. S. A. first.” 

Frembach shrugged his shoulders. “It’s your 
property, of course. I’ll do whatever you say.” 

“ It isn’t my property. If it’s any good, the cred¬ 
it’s all yours. 

“ No, it’s yours. You put up the money that-” 




THE GREEN SCARF 


209 


Tommy waved the argument aside. “ You come 
down to the office to-morrow and we’ll put it up to 
Burroughs. He’ll know what to do.” 

“Burroughs?” Frembach looked blank and a 
little mistrustful. 

“ Sure. You’re the inventor an’ I’m the capital¬ 
ist, if you want to put it that way. But old Bur¬ 
roughs is the lad to make things hum. If there’s 
anything in this stuff, he’ll get it out, all right, all 
right! ” 

The chemist sighed. “ I’ve done all I can. Maybe 
you’re right.” 

A question suddenly occurred to Tommy. “ Say,” 
he demanded, “how long have you known about 
this?” 

Frembach thought a moment. “ About a month.” 

“A month! Why — why didn’t you tell me?” 

The old man lowered his faded eyes. “I — I was 
ashamed,” he muttered. 

Tommy slapped his thigh in utter astonishment. 

“Well, by the- Darned if you aren’t a nut! 

Ashamed ? You certainly do need a manager! ” 

Frembach nodded. “I — I guess that’s so.” 

Mr. Burroughs’ cool gray eyes widened as he lis¬ 
tened to the narrative of Frembach’s discovery. His 
amazement would have been infinitely greater had 
he known all the circumstances preceding it. The 




210 


THE GREEN SCARF 


fact was that Tommy was unwontedly disingenu¬ 
ous. He had planned for this interview with ex¬ 
treme care. To take Mr. Burroughs completely into 
his confidence would entail, he realized, more revela¬ 
tion than he cared to make. Any statement of the 
chemist’s original plans would require an explana¬ 
tion— and the explanation would mean a confes¬ 
sion of his own and his family’s circumstances. 
This confession he was still reluctant to make. So 
he merely glozed over preliminaries and went 
straight to the heart of the matter. 

His story was perhaps more enthusiastic than 
technically accurate, and when he paused for breath 
Mr. Burroughs, by an almost imperceptible gesture, 
signified his desire to have the chemist’s version. 

Frembach obeyed with alacrity. His words, em¬ 
phasized by passionate thrusts of his long arms, 
poured forth in a ready flood. Interspersed with 
only vaguely intelligible scientific jargon, and at 
times beclouded by interjection of the moral issues 
which to him were so profoundly involved, he nev¬ 
ertheless succeeded in filling the gaps which Tom¬ 
my’s ignorance had left, and in giving a fairly com¬ 
plete account of the situation as it stood. When he 
had finished, Mr. Burroughs rose to pace thought¬ 
fully to and fro behind his desk. 

“H’m!” he ejaculated at last. “And what am I 
expected to do in this business ? ” 



THE GREEN SCARF 


211 


“ That’s for you to say,” supplied Tommy 
promptly. “We came to you ’cause you know and 
we don’t.” 

Mr. Burroughs was silent momentarily. “ I sup¬ 
pose the first thing is to get it patented. Then sub¬ 
mit it to the government. And then-” He 

halted abruptly, biting his lips. “Assuming that 
you’ve really found something, Frembach, it’ll prove 
a lucky thing for you that you left us when you 
did.” 

The chemist showed his astonishment. “ Why ? ” 

“ Because if you had invented this stuff while in 
our employ, the rights to it would be ours. As it 
is — well, you may get rich.” 

Tommy’s heart leaped. “ You mean you — you’ll 
take it up?” 

Mr. Burroughs answered without emotion, but 
his eyes glittered: “If we get any encouragement 

from Washington, we- Yes, we might go into 

the gunpowder business.” 

“Holy smoke! Paint to dynamite—some 
jump!” 

“ Not so far chemically,” said Frembach literally. 

Mr. Burroughs smiled and pressed the button 
which summoned his secretary. “Without being 
dogmatic, Cass,” he said, as calmly as if he were 
stating the simplest of axioms, “I should say that 
the whole philosophy of business was to make any- 




212 


THE GREEN SCARF 


thing you can sell at a profit. If we can make this 
— this — what do you call the stuff, Frembach? ” 

“ Nitrotrinet.” 

“Oh, heavens!” interrupted Burroughs, with a 
laugh. “ I couldn’t remember that, anyway. How 
about calling it — well, Frembalite?” 

“ Frembalite! ” echoed the old chemist softly, al¬ 
most reverently, as if he were seeing a vision. His 
great hands suddenly went to his face, and his head 
dropped on his breast. 

Tommy lost no time in dreams. “ Who’ll take 
care of the patenting?” he inquired practically. 

“ Can you write up the details, Frembach? ” asked 
Mr. Burroughs. 

With a sigh, the old man came out of his reverie 
and joined the others in discussion of the immediate 
details of the problem. 

It was decided, at the conference, to leave the 
minutiae of litigation, and the negotiations with the 
government, in the capable and experienced hands 
of Mr. Burroughs. Tommy, who had a fortnight 
before been transferred from the factory to the 
office, resumed his rather tedious task of becoming 
familiar with the arcana of accounting, and, his 
work being both novel and exacting, presently found 
himself becoming all but indifferent to the fate of 
Frembalite. 



THE GREEN SCARF 


2 13 


Months rolled away without developments, the 
only news being a discouraging report from their 
representative in Washington on the attitude of cer¬ 
tain congressmen whose views had been canvassed. 
It was the conviction of these gentlemen, apparently, 
that the powder used in the United States army and 
navy was superior to anything yet discovered, or to 
be discovered. And, furthermore, if one insisted on 
getting to the bottom of it, that it was really a mat¬ 
ter of small consequence, anyway, whether the guns 
of the commonwealth fired good powder or bad. In 
fact, morally all powder was bad. 

Tommy, not familiar with the ratiocinative proc¬ 
esses of congressmen in general, and pacifists in 
particular, was tremendously depressed. Being a 
person of perfectly literal mind, he was entirely un¬ 
able to see why the chairman of a committee on 
military affairs should consider military affairs as 
something rather beneath a Christian and a gentle¬ 
man. He was so simple-minded that it actually 
made him angry. But Mr. Burroughs merely smiled. 

“ Wait,” he counseled. “ We’ll try the front door 
first, as a matter of form and courtesy. If they 
won’t open it, we’ll try the back.” 

More months rolled away, without news, discour¬ 
aging or otherwise. And then one bright morning 
Mr. Burroughs called Tommy into his private office. 
It was a matter of pride with the president of the 



214 


THE GREEN SCARF 


Champion Paint and Varnish Company to maintain 
always an impassive exterior. But on this occasion 
it was plain to see that he labored under a pressure 
of excitement almost uncontrollable. 

“I — I’ve just heard from Washington,” he said, 
in a voice which shook despite his evident efforts to 
manage it. 

Tommy’s heart sank. “Another turndown?” 

“ The thing’s been in the hands of the navy,” went 
on Mr. Burroughs, ignoring the question. “ They’ve 
given it a thorough trial in big guns and little. I 
have here an order for ten thousand pounds of 
Frembalite. And an assurance that they will take 
all we can make, if it continues to measure up to 
the trials.” His fist came down on the desk with a 
crash that made the inkwell jump, and his excite¬ 
ment was no longer concealed. “ It’s a go, Tommy, 
my boy— it's a go! ” 

Tommy could only gasp: “And the patent?” 

“ It’s not allowed yet, but I’ve got the word of the 
best firm in the country that it most certainly will 
be. But the name’s registered. Old Frembach’s got 
his place in history, all right.” 

“ I’ll go tell him! ” cried Tommy. 

Mr. Burroughs had one of his rare moments of 
expansiveness. “Tell him his job’s waiting for 
him, and any kind of a laboratory he wants, with 
assistants by the barrel! ” 



THE GREEN SCARF 


215 


Tommy was already in the hall, whistling at the 
top of his lungs. 

More news of the navy tests came through pres¬ 
ently to delight the hearts of all concerned in Frem- 
balite. It appeared that not only had all their hopes 
been justified and all the claims of the inventor sub¬ 
stantiated, but that new and altogether unsuspected 
virtues had been discovered in the greasy, yellow 
pellets of destruction. “It was as far superior to 
cordite,” wrote one gunnery expert of high degree, 
“as black powder was to a sling shot.” This, of 
course, was hyperbole, but it was gratifying, none 
the less. 

It was very quickly evident, however, that pleas¬ 
ant as contemplation was upon the success already 
achieved, it advanced matters practically not at all. 
There was elaborate apparatus of one kind or an¬ 
other to be secured, materials to be purchased, 
skilled assistance to be hired, complicated machin¬ 
ery to be designed, manufactured, and installed, and 
finally factory facilities to be acquired. The days 
were full of toil for everybody, and, more fre¬ 
quently than not, a goodly portion of the nights, too. 

At first the operations connected with the manu¬ 
facture of Frembalite were kept shrouded in mys¬ 
tery. But secrets are short-lived when many share 
them. So it was not long before every one, from 
office help to doorkeeper, had fairly accurate in- 



2 l 6 


THE GREEN SCARF 


formation as to the new course upon which the 
Champion Paint and Varnish Company had em¬ 
barked. 

When it was manifest that the secret was one no 
longer, Tommy unleashed his tongue and talked 
frankly to his erstwhile companions of the factory 
about it. Bubbling over with enthusiasm as he was 
himself, he expected that they would of course be 
enthusiastic, too. In consequence he was sorely per¬ 
plexed by their reception of the news. And then, 
as he was brought to realize the truth, he was hurt 
and a little angry. 

He tried, though unsuccessfully, to evade the 
idea. But the apathy of nine out of ten of the men 
was all too apparent. They were neither pessimistic 
about the new venture, nor hostile; they simply did 
not care. They talked about it, to be sure, and for 
a time did a little welcome boasting outside. But 
when the novelty had vanished, and the new ma¬ 
chinery was in operation, and every one had paid 
a visit to the new factories, hastily thrown up in the 
safety of the prairie to the west, they went back to 
indifference. 

Tommy struggled bravely to arouse in them an 
appreciation of all that Frembalite meant. But they 
merely turned their heads away and went on debat¬ 
ing the relative merits of the Sox and the Cubs. 
And finally the dreadful truth dawned upon him 



THE GREEN SCARF 


217 


that Frembalite really meant nothing whatever to 
them. The corollary was inevitable; the company 
itself meant nothing to them. 

That certainty struck him with the force of a 
blow, and sickened him for days. But he was young 
and temperamentally optimistic; and, above all, he 
was enormously busy with concrete and immediate 
affairs. He had little time for spiritual complica¬ 
tions. 

Then one day, when things had just begun to run 
smoothly and Frembalite was pouring out from the 
machines with the precision and volume of ordinary 
paint or varnish, the vaulting edifice of material 
achievement collapsed about his startled ears and he 
was forced, whether he would or no, to envisage a 
new and altogether dreadful world. 

The summons came from Mr. Burroughs, borne 
by Reddie Monaghan, the diminutive office Mer¬ 
cury. “An’, gee!” added the latter, his eyes pop¬ 
ping. “The old man’s awful mad ’bout some¬ 
thin’ !” 

Tommy found the diagnosis all too accurate. Mr. 
Burroughs, all thought of impassiveness thrown to 
the winds, was pacing his office like an angry bear. 
“The swine!” he growled savagely through tight- 
clamped jaws. “The contemptible-” 

“You wished to see me?” broke in Tommy hesi¬ 
tantly. 




2l8 


THE GREEN SCARF 


“ Yes. D’you know what’s happened ? ” 

“Why — no, sir.” 

“We’re held up; that’s what. We’re stood 
against a wall and our pockets emptied by the-” 

“I — I don’t understand.” 

For the first time in their association, Tommy 
heard Mr. Burroughs curse — sulphurously. 
“They’ve just left me. They-” 

“Who have?” 

“As fine a gang of thieving pirates as ever flew 
the jolly roger!” Another stream of savage oaths 
poured from the president’s lips. Never, thought 
Tommy, had he seen a man more thoroughly angry. 
Fascinated, he stared at the pulsing nostrils, and 
watched the spot of color come and go on the white 
cheeks. 

“Who has been here?” he ventured timidly. 

Mr. Burroughs’ tense features relaxed a trifle and 
he laughed, though quite mirthlessly. “A delegation 
from the freight huskies. They demand a ten-per¬ 
cent increase in pay — they got a voluntary increase 
not three months ago, mind you, and half an hour 
off their working time.” 

Tommy was appalled. “Not — not Dolan’s 

crowd ? ” 

Mr. Burroughs bared his teeth in a vitriolic sneer. 
“Dolan was one of them.” 


No!” 





THE GREEN SCARF 


219 


“ Yes, and talkative. He — he smelled like a bar¬ 
room, damn him! ” 

“No!” repeated Tommy weakly. He felt sick 
at heart. 

Mr. Burroughs resumed his nervous pacing of 
the floor. “I told them what I thought of them. 
I — I told them to go to the devil! ” 

“You — you refused their demands?” 

“Naturally. And I did more than that. I told 
’em they were fired — every mother’s son of th&n.” 

“What did they say?” 

Mr. Burroughs halted, his fingers twitching. His 
lips moved dryly for a moment before any words 
came from them. When he finally spoke, it was in 
a voice which shook with passion: “ They laughed 
at me, Cass! By gad, they laughed! I didn’t dare 
fire them, they said. I didn’t dare! And if I didn’t 
meet their demands, they’d quit. They gave me 
twenty-four hours to decide.” 

“ What can you do ? ” 

“Do? The dogs are right — I don’t dare to fire 
them. And, what’s more, they very kindly informed 
me that if they quit the rest of the plant would go 
out, too! ” 

“No!” Tommy was monosyllabic in his aston¬ 
ishment. His feelings were too profound for ex¬ 
pression. 

“How do you like your precious laboring man, 



220 


THE GREEN SCARF 


the honest, sweating toiler, now?” sneered Mr. Bur¬ 
roughs, with a malevolence not at all repressed. 
“They think we’re making a big thing out of this 
powder proposition, so they’re going to join us in 
the melon.” 

Tommy thought a moment. “In a way, that’s 
fair — don’t you think?” he suggested diffidently. 
“ I mean-” 

“ Fair! ” roared Burroughs, in utter exasperation. 
“What an imbecilic question! Of course it isn’t 
fair! Why, great guns, man, do you-” 

“But oughtn’t labor to share — more or less — in 
unusual profits ? ” 

Burroughs’ lip curled. “Then labor ought to 
share in unusual risks—and unusual losses. This 
powder business may blow the company into a re¬ 
ceivership before we’re through. Personally I’m 
risking my reputation, my job — a whole lot of 
money. Yet you want these fellows to get every¬ 
thing without risking anything!” 

“I didn’t say I wanted that,” countered Tommy. 
“ I was merely thinking, that’s all.” 

“Well, it’s crooked thinking,” rasped Burroughs 
harshly, “and it’s about time you were thinking 
straight.” 

Tommy went away sadly. It was plain that to 
Mr. Burroughs his sincere effort to be just was 
nothing more than disloyalty. He was perplexed. 





THE GREEN SCARF 


221 


What a complicated business life was! Instincts, 
emotion, reason — all running on different tracks, 
sometimes in quite opposite directions. It was in¬ 
evitable that there should be smash-ups! 

He went back to his billing, resolved that he 
would forget these tugging calls of yea and nay. 
Billing was quite enough to occupy a fellow. Who 
was he, anyway, to determine what ought to be? 

A victorious army never halts, saying: Thus far 
and no more. The conqueror seeks out and destroys 
— utterly. Not a tenth or a fifth or half, but utterly. 
The essence of conquest is entirety. 

Mr. Burroughs expressed this somewhat recon¬ 
dite abstraction to Tommy a few days later. He 
spoke with the grimly quiet resignation of a man in 
flight. “The teamsters have decided to walk out,” 
he said. “A little more straw on the poor old 
camel!” 

“ They threaten a strike ? ” 

“They do!” 

“Well?” 

Mr. Burroughs’ lips drew back, exposing his 
strong white teeth, locked in a resolute line. 
“They’re going — to — get — it!” 

“You mean?” 

“ I mean that the time has come to halt and fight.” 
His icy repression left him for a moment, and he 



222 


THE GREEN SCARE 


burst into a flare of white-hot rage. “ By heavens, 
I’ll fight that bunch of robbers to a standstill if it 
takes every nickel I’ve got! ” 

“ But the others — the rest of the pay roll ? ” 

“ Let ’em do as they like. It’s now or never. The 
directors are back of me. If we yield now, we’ll 
never stop. We’ve got to fight. It’s now or never, 
I tell you.” 

“ You’ve told them — the teamsters, I mean?” 

“ I’ve done more. I’ve arranged for strike break¬ 
ers and guards. I-” He broke off suddenly 

and his keen eyes flashed. “ Can you use a gun ? ” 
“Why, yes. What for?” Tommy experienced 
a sense of chill. Mr. Burroughs’ expression was 
singularly ominous. 

“ Because there’s going to be trouble. We’ve got 
an injunction against picketing, and that means a 
scrap sure. I’m going to have you, and men I can 
trust, sworn in as deputy sheriffs. Those fellows 
are going to find that John Burroughs can be bluffed 
and bullied just so far! ” 

“It’s too bad!” sighed Tommy from the bottom 
of his heart. 

Mr. Burroughs looked up sharply, a little 
suspicious. “ What is ? ” he demanded. 

“It — it seems so like — like — well, treachery,” 
went on Tommy meditatively. “And yet I don’t 
suppose it really is.” 




THE GREEN SCARF 


223 


“What d’ye mean — treachery?” Mr. Bur¬ 
roughs’ suspicion was plainly deepening. 

Tommy sighed. “Oh, I thought everybody would 
be so tickled about Frembalite — and they weren’t. 
They didn’t care. They—they aren’t part of the 
company at all. They just work for it. It — it’s 
hard to express it, but you know what I mean. 
They aren’t patriotic; they’re just mercenaries.” 

Mr. Burroughs exhibited something like relief. 
“Of course. That’s exactly what I’ve always told 
you.” 

Tommy went on, as if in expressing his thoughts 
he was trying merely to resolve order out of chaos 
without caring particularly who heard them or how 
they sounded: “ They aren’t part of the organiza¬ 
tion; that’s the trouble. We used to run up against 
the same thing in college. Fellows sometimes would 
get to thinking of their fraternity as more important 
than the university as a whole. That made politics. 
It — it wasn’t right.” 

Mr. Burroughs sneered. “What do these precious 
thugs care about rightness or gratitude — or any 
other decent emotion?” 

Tommy continued, as if he had not heard the in¬ 
terruption : “ They aren’t a part of the team. They 
don’t care what happens to it. It’s funny. I can’t 
understand it. They’re decent chaps, really. Dolan, 
for instance. And yet they’ll spoil everything, strik- 



224 


THE GREEN SCARF 


ing like this. It’s a rotten shame! Just when things 
are moving so nicely, too! ” 

A shrewd smile flickered in Burroughs’ eyes, and 
he laid his hand on Tommy’s arm. “ Don’t worry, 
son,” he said. “They aren’t going to strike — not 
many of them. And those who do will be coming 
back pretty soon with their tails between their legs. 
We’ll lick ’em Cass — by thunder, we will!” 

“Not strike?” echoed Tommy. “Why not?” 
“Because, my boy, it won’t be wise. We’ve got 
a pension fund, you know. Any man who goes out 
forfeits that. It’ll make a lot of the older men think 
twice, I guess.” 

“But suppose they don’t-” 

Mr. Burroughs’ face became like flint. “ I’ve told 
you. We’ll fight ’em to a finish. If this business 
can’t be run except at the dictation of a lot of team¬ 
sters and freight handlers, then, by the Lord, it 
won’t be run at all! ” 

In the hall Tommy stood undecided for a mo¬ 
ment. Then slowly he descended the stairs which 
led to the factory. 

He went straight to Jake, the soft-spoken old man 
who had proved his friendship in his first days in 
the shop. He put his question without preliminaries: 
“ How long have you been with the concern, Jake ? ” 
The old mechanic looked up from his bench, 
mildly surprised at the bluntness of the question. 




THE GREEN SCARF 


225 


“ Since it started,” he replied quietly. 

“You’ve heard about the teamsters?” 

The old man nodded. 

“ They claim they’ll take the rest of the plant out 
with them.” 

Again the enigmatic nod. 

“Will you go?” 

For a fraction of an instant the old man hesitated. 
Then his head inclined slowly in assent. 

Tommy was nonplussed. He kept his feelings in 
leash, however, merely saying curtly: “You’ll 
throw away your pension.” 

Jake shrugged his gaunt shoulders. “It’s the 
principle, Tom.” 

With a world tumbling about his ears, Tommy 
merely signified by a gesture that he was listening, 
and the old mechanic went on quietly. 

“If the teamsters go out alone,” he said, “they 
can’t win. They need the skilled hands, too. La¬ 
bor’s got to stick together, I guess. I got no 
choice.” He seemed quite resigned, and if he felt 
resentment or reluctance he concealed it well. 

“ You may not get your job back when it’s over,” 
said Tommy, consciously cruel. 

The old man smiled wryly. “ Prob’ly not.” 

“And your pension?” 

“I’m a single man,” was the simple reply. 

“You don’t want to quit, do you?” 



226 


THE GREEN SCARF 


The answer was succinct but awesome in its reve¬ 
lation, like the sudden flare in the sky when a loco¬ 
motive fire door is opened: “ Gawd, no! ” 

Tommy rapped out a disgusted oath. “You’re 
going to throw up a perfectly good job and all that 
goes with it, just because a lot of idiotic loafers tell 
you to ? ” 

“No, son,” was the response, uttered with a 
wealth of unconscious dignity; “because I ought 
to.” 

Tommy went away saddened and perplexed. Mr. 
Burroughs had said that “those fellows” cared 
nothing for right or gratitude — that the finer emo¬ 
tions were beyond their ken. In one light, the bit¬ 
ter charge almost seemed true. And yet here was a 
man quietly sacrificing everything he possessed, dis¬ 
counting the future, for nothing more tangible than 
an ideal. He expected nothing for himself. He 
sought nothing. 

Tommy recalled his own harsh verdict of “ treach¬ 
ery.” Perhaps it had been merited. But it hardly 
squared with the spectacle of this simple old man 
quite cheerfully offering himself up on the altar of 
loyalty to what he conceived to be his class. 

It was a baffling paradox. He groaned inwardly 
at the dreadful complexity of it all. If only that 
splendid selflessness of which Jake was a symbol 
could be broadened and deepened, vitalized, har- 



THE GREEN SCARF 


227 


nessed to bigger things! 

If those wonderful qualities of courage, of en¬ 
ergy, of devotion to a cause, of readiness to sac¬ 
rifice individual comfort for the good of one’s 
fellows — if they could but be utilized for prog¬ 
ress instead of mutual destruction! If the effi¬ 
ciency, the organizing genius of Burroughs could 
be made to overcome his dulling conservatism; and, 
on the other hand, if the blind, but rather noble, 
groping upward of the toilers could be controlled 
against their folly and their passion! 

If men would only work as a team! 

Tommy almost cried out in the agony of his utter 
bewilderment before life. And then, as if an angel 
has whispered to his soul, he thought of the green 
scarf. 

Was the answer to it all something bigger and 
finer than comfort and prosperity and things run¬ 
ning along smoothly? 

Would peace come to the world only when men, 
clever as well as dull, lived to give rather than to 
get? 

Was that what one found in Mecca? 

The wail of the noon whistle rent the air. It 
was like the agony of a birth cry —the never-end¬ 
ing parturition of progress. The strike was on. 



CHAPTER XIII 


I T WAS very quickly made clear that it was to 
be no half-hearted struggle. What the men 
lacked of organization or definite purpose they made 
up for in a peculiarly savage ruthlessness. 

The teamsters, having union affiliations and prec¬ 
edent to guide them, went out precisely on sched¬ 
ule at twelve o’clock. The shipping-room force 
followed an hour later. And all through the after¬ 
noon the defections continued. The older men put 
down their tools soberly, with a reluctance all too 
evident. Youth was bitter and resentful. But when 
the revolt reached the girls, it took on an almost 
festive quality; they trooped out gay and laughing, 
as if it were all a kind of lark. 

The women and many of the older men dispersed 
at once to their homes. Some of the latter knew 
too well, by experience, what was coming, and 
they had no desire to share in it. But the younger 
men remained, standing about in sullen groups or 
clustered like flies around neighboring bars. 

It was a damp, gloomy day, with the smoke clouds 
hanging low and motionless over the city. The 
somber atmosphere seemed reflected in the men. 
228 


THE GREEN SCARF 


229 


They wandered to and fro irresolutely, talking in 
growling undertones, with an occasional drunken 
voice raised raucously. They seemed to be wait¬ 
ing for something—no one knew exactly what. 

But there were those in the crowd who did know. 
Grim, cold-eyed men, with ready tongues and much 
understanding. Energetic, keen-witted fellows, 
who talked freely and inflammably, but whose heads 
were exceedingly cool. Proselyting for a cause, 
they were, and intent upon large ends — ends of 
which the cursing neophytes knew nothing. It was 
of little moment to these shrewd incendiaries that 
the horde of toilers which listened to them might 
win a few extra cents on the day’s wages. There 
was a greater prize than that. If, at the end of the 
struggle, one could write a matter-of-fact report that 
a new “ Local ” or two had emerged, then one might 
well rejoice. That report would join others, always 
moving upward, gathering volume and significance 
as it rose, until at last it reached the desk of a bald- 
headed little man far away, a cigar maker by trade, 
but a prophet by circumstance, who would digest 
it all and speak a little louder of the “majesty of 
labor.” 

If there was activity on the street, there was quite 
as much within the gray old stronghold of the 
Champion Paint and Varnish Company. Once com¬ 
mitted to the course, Mr. Burroughs acted with 



230 


THE GREEN SCARF 


characteristic determination. 

A high board fence already surrounded the plant, 
save for a few small gaps. These were promptly 
filled, and weak points strengthened. Guards were 
posted at the gates, with strict orders to admit no 
one unidentified. 

Tommy, in common with the rest of the office 
force, watched these preparations in horrified fas¬ 
cination. Their meaning was clear to him, as it was 
also clear to the sullen groups on the street. Bur¬ 
roughs meant to make good his threat to the utter¬ 
most. He was going to fight to a finish. 

Late that afternoon the first contingent of strike 
breakers arrived, sent, as Tommy was amazed to 
discover, by a corporation which specialized in just 
such service. These men were of two distinct types. 
One group, and by far the largest, was composed of 
individuals rather dull and timorous in appearance. 
It was not surprising to find, later, that many of 
them were foreigners, speaking little or no English. 
The other group was quite different. Its members 
were anything but timid. They walked with an 
almost provocative swing to the shoulders, a cer¬ 
tain jaunty recklessness manifest in nearly all of 
them. These were the “guards,” the “special po¬ 
lice,” hardy adventurers to whom scruples consti¬ 
tuted an abstraction without vitality, and to whom 
fighting, for its own sake, was the breath of life. 



THE GREEN SCARF 


231 


Their leader, a saturnine man with a nasal drawl, 
excessively scarred, posted them at strategic points 
around the property. It sent a chill down Tommy’s 
spine to see the rifle with which each man was 
armed. Silently they took their places, their 
weapons slung ready for use, and an expression on 
their faces which said quite plainly that they did 
not consider themselves merely ornamental. 

This performance did not chill the men outside; 
it maddened them. The rambling, low-toned dis¬ 
cussions gave place to shouted epithets. The sa¬ 
loons were rapidly increasing their inflammatory 
assistance, and before long stones were flying as 
well as oaths. 

Night fell, however, without any particularly un¬ 
toward incident. Mr. Burroughs remained until 
late, overseeing the arrangements for housing and 
feeding the strike breakers and the mercenaries who 
protected them. Tommy, partly from duty and 
partly from curiosity, stayed with him. 

There was still a mob around the gate when they 
went out, about ten o’clock, and he experienced the 
altogether unpleasant sensation of being the object 
of definite hate. Mr. Burroughs, however, seemed 
imperturbability itself. Tommy envied him for it, 
but his own ears burned under the insults shouted 
at him. Once a stone whizzed by his head. 

“ Cowards! ” snapped Burroughs, without in- 



232 


THE GREEN SCARF 


creasing his pace by a fraction. 

Tommy was suffused with sudden anger. He half 
halted. “ I’d like to go back an’ clean ’em up! ” he 
growled youthfully. 

Burroughs took his arm. “They’re too full of 
booze to appreciate the honor. Don’t look around.” 

Tommy seized upon the word gratefully and his 
wrath faded. “Full of booze — poor devils!” 

When Tommy reached the plant next morning, 
he found the crowd around the gate considerably 
larger, and, after a night of reflection upon its 
wrongs, to say nothing of the absorption of large 
quantities of alcohol, considerably uglier. 

He was recognized as he shouldered his way 
through the press, and a sudden torrent of abuse 
fell upon him. He turned scarlet at the words he 
heard. When he was almost at the gate, some one 
gave him a vicious thrust, which almost took him 
off his feet. He swung around, his fists clenched. 

“ Who did that ? ” he barked. “ I’ll-” 

Before he could finish the sentence, a strong hand 
had seized his coat collar, and a sudden yank 
brought him inside the safety of the barricade. He 
heard the gate slam behind him, and he realized 
that his rapid entrance was due to one of the “ spe¬ 
cial police,” who stood beside him, grinning. 

“ Sorry, lad,” said the man, biting off a chew of 
tobacco. “ But it ain’t ’visable to scrap with them 




THE GREEN SCARF 


2 33 


guys — not with yer fists. They’s cowards alone, 
but they’ll do ye up when they’s in a bunch like 
that!” 

“ Thanks,” said Tommy briefly. The guard was 
doubtless right, but he’d like to have had one crack 
at that chap — just one! 

Although it was early, he found Mr. Burroughs 
already down and busy in the almost hopeless task 
of making the new men reasonably productive. For¬ 
tunately the more skilled labor among the old hands 
had for the most part remained loyal, despite the 
utmost efforts to get them out with the teamsters 
and the others. But it was quite sufficiently diffi¬ 
cult to make even a packer out of a man who in all 
his life had never done anything more exact or deli¬ 
cate than excavate trenches. Still, by the exercise 
of patience and the utmost restraint, and by all sorts 
of inducements in the way of bonuses and the like, 
order was gradually secured out of the chaos. 

Hourly, however, it grew more plain that the 
struggle was to be a bitter one. One of the new 
men, driving a truck, was set upon by the mob out¬ 
side and dragged from his seat. He was saved 
from severe handling only by the prompt appearance 
of a guard flourishing a rifle. 

Later in the morning, a similar attack was made. 
But on this occasion, the guard, who was riding 
beside the driver of the truck, was less restrained. 



534 


THE GREEN SCARF 


He promptly unlimbered his rifle and fired into the 
mob. A boy was wounded in the thigh. The crowd 
was dispersed, but at the price of tremendously 
deepened hostility. 

Mr. Burroughs shook his head wearily when he 
heard the news. “ It’s always the way. Bums and 
agitators see their chance, and, before you know it, 
ordinarily decent, self-respecting workingmen are 
acting like a lot of criminals. Well, if they want 
fight, I guess they’re going to get it! ” 

As the day wore on, acts of violence became more 
numerous. A telephone message from Frembach, at 
the powder mills, said that two attempts had been 
made to set fire to the buildings. The situation 
grew so serious that the city-police reserves were 
called out, and there was talk of the militia. And 
late in the afternoon Mr. Burroughs himself, heavily 
guarded, went out to take charge. There was no 
telling what Frembach, left to himself, might do. 

Tommy found himself fully occupied in the shop, 
utilizing his own experience in the instruction of 
the new men. But at the end of the day he hur¬ 
ried up to find Anne. He discovered her seated at 
her desk, staring pensively out of the window. 

Her greeting was quite cheerful, however. 
“Hello!” she cried brightly. “I feel as if I was 
in a beleaguered fortress.” 

He did not accept her cue of levity. “ See here, 



THE GREEN SCARF 


235 


Anne,” he said seriously, “ you’d better take a va¬ 
cation until this thing is over.” 

“Why on earth should I do that?” 

“ Because it’s dangerous, and getting worse. One 
of the guards shot a man today, and they’re in an 
ugly temper. I — I don’t like your coming down 
here.” 

She laughed easily. “ Nonsense! They wouldn’t 
hurt me.” 

“Maybe the men wouldn’t — not intentionally. 
But when stones are flying, somebody’s bound to 
get hit. Then there’s the girls. You can’t tell what 
they might do.” 

As he spoke, he went over and seated himself 
on the window sill. “You can see ’em from here, 
can’t you? Look at ’em run! The police! The 
cops certainly keep them on the move, all right. 
Hello! What the dickens was that?” 

“ Oh, Tommy! ” Anne was out of her chair and 
at his side. The smile had left her face; it was 
white with terror. “Quick!” she cried. “Get away 
from the window!” 

Her pointed finger was eloquent, and he lost no 
time in obeying her command. In the window, 
not a foot above where his head had been, was a 
jagged hole. He knelt down, fumbling in the 
broken glass. 

“What are you looking for?” she asked, her 



236 


THE GREEN SCARF 


voice trembling with deep concern. 

“Here it is,” he answered, holding up a bit of 
white stone which glistened in the twilight. “ I — I 
think it’ll make a nice souvenir.” 

“Oh, Tommy!” She covered her face with her 
hands and sank into the chair. 

He was at her side in a bound. “Good Lord, 
Anne, what are you crying about?” 

“It — it might have hit you!” she quavered. 

His eyes opened wonderingly. “You — you’re 
crying because — because I — I might have got 
hurt?” A smile of awe softened his features, and 
he drew a long breath. “You mean you — you 
_ }> 

But her loss of poise was only momentary. A 
quick gesture with her handkerchief, and she was 
herself again. “Where is Mr. Burroughs?” she 
asked, without permitting their eyes to meet. 

“Over with Frembach,” he answered shortly. 
“Why?” 

“Oh, I just wondered.” 

Gloom succeeded the radiance of the vanished 
moment. His lips set and he opened the door. “If 
you’re ready, we’ll go now.” 

“We?” 

“Yes. I’m going to see you to the car.” 

She tried to ease the strained atmosphere. 
“You?” she laughed. “What can you do against 




THE GREEN SCARF 


*37 


a mob of howling Davids?” 

For reply his hand went to his hip and he jerked 
forth an automatic pistol. “ Never fired this at a 
man, but I guess I could,” he snapped crisply. 

“ Oh! ” was all she said. But she was thinking 
that any one who put himself in the path of this 
broad-shouldered youth would be most unwise. 
“Oh!” she repeated, as she followed him into the 
hall. It came over her, almost embarrassingly, that 
his mere presence afforded her a quite ridiculous 
sense of security. 

“ There’s really no need of your going with me,” 
she insisted again. 

He made no answer. 

At the entrance used by the office workers, they 
found comparatively few of the strikers, and these 
few kept constantly on the move by several uni¬ 
formed policemen. Nevertheless, it was not pos* 
sible to run the gauntlet without hearing things 
which crimsoned Tommy’s cheek. His soul was 
seething with anger, but he kept his eyes straight 
ahead, and he breathed a profound sigh of relief 
when they were at last out of earshot. 

“That was dreadful,” she said frankly. “How 
fighting changes people! ” 

He was not sure. “ Fighting doesn’t change ’em. 
It’s like liquor; it merely shows ’em up.” 

“Then you think we’re all brutes — naturally?” 



238 


THE GREEN SCARF 


“ Nearly everybody,” was his brusque admission. 

She did not press the argument. She found him 
perverse and unreasonable. The reason she knew 
only too well. 

Her car did not come for some time. For a lit¬ 
tle while they chatted on indifferent topics. Then 
she said: “You’re going back, I suppose?” 

He nodded. “We’ve got cots fixed up, and 
meals come in from the restaurant across the street.” 

“ It’s terrible! ” There was no secret of her aver¬ 
sion for the whole proceedings. 

“ It’ll soon be over,” he said confidently. “ They 
can’t hold out. Not when they see their bluff’s 
been called.” 

She sighed. “ It’s the first strike in the history 
of the company.” 

The bell of the approaching street car clanged. 
He seized her arm. “Anne — I want you to stay 
away until this thing is settled. Please! ” 

She looked into his eyes for an instant. Then 
she shook her head gently. “Miss Gallery’s not 
staying away. Nor Miss-” 

“Oh, I know,” he pleaded. “But that’s differ¬ 
ent. You-” 

The sentence was unfinished. She had gotten 
on the car. She waved to him from the platform. 
“ See you in the morning,” she called gayly. 

He turned away with a sigh. Then his face 





THE GREEN SCARF 


239 


cleared. “ Good girl! ” he whispered softly. 

Anne’s car had been more belated than he real¬ 
ized, and it was well after dark when he turned his 
steps back toward the factory. It occurred to him 
that he would probably be too late for supper, so 
he dropped into a near-by lunch counter. It was 
nearly eight o’clock when he finally arrived at the 
seat of war. 

Something new and ominous oppressed him al¬ 
most before he was inside the gate. The place was 
surprisingly quiet. The boisterous singing of the 
strike breakers which had marked the evening be¬ 
fore was absent. The stillness weighed on Tommy’s 
heart like lead. He paused for a moment, striv¬ 
ing to understand the mysterious portents in the 
air. Then he hurried up the stairs to the loft which 
had been utilized as a dormitory, the blood pound¬ 
ing in his veins. 

The strange forebodings of evil were justified by 
the sight which met his gaze as he entered the long, 
narrow room. 

At the far end was a silent group, clustered about 
a cot, their faint movements casting grotesque 
shadows in the light from a single electric bulb dan¬ 
gling overhead. Occasional subdued whispers came 
from the little knot of men. 

A dark figure flitted by him. Tommy held out 
his hand. “ What’s up ? ” he cried. 



240 


THE GREEN SCARF 


The man stopped, peering into his face. “The 
dirty hounds have done it this time, all right!” 
His hoarse voice trailed off into a guttural stream 
of blasphemy. 

“Done what?” Tommy almost ceased to 
breathe. 

“ They’s croaked one of the dagos. Mebbe two. 
The doctor’s wit’ the other guy now.” 

With another volley of curses, the man hurried 
on. Tommy went over to the group around the 
cot. The questions which sprang to his lips died 
at what he saw. 

A tall man, his face a greenish gray, lay stretched 
on the pallet, breathing stertorously. A figure in 
shirt sleeves, who had been bending over the un¬ 
conscious form of the strike breaker, straightened 
up, and Tommy recognized Wilson, the company 
physician. 

He seized the doctor’s arm. “ What’s happened ? ” 

Wilson did not recognize him immediately in the 
dim light, and shook his hand off, grunting some¬ 
thing unintelligible. But when Tommy made his 
identity clear, he answered without hesitation: 
“ Something in the soup. It’s being analyzed now. 
Arsenic, I think. One man’s dead, and——” 

“Dead!” Tommy clutched at his throat. The 
drab coolness with which the doctor made the state¬ 
ment intensified its horror. 




THE GREEN SCARF 


241 


“Yep. Maybe I can save this fellow, though. 
I’ve pumped out his stomach and filled him full of 
castor oil.” 

Tommy was too appalled for a moment to speak. 
The suddenness of the tragedy, its eerie staging, 
made speech impossible. Finally he managed to 
make an all but inarticulate plea for enlightenment: 
“Arsenic — in the soup. I — I don’t understand.” 

The doctor was quite matter of fact. “Those 
beggars on the street probably slipped the dope in 
the soup on its way over. The bov who brought it 
said they crowded him and-” 

“Why — but that’s murder!” 

“ Sure,” said the doctor cheerfully. “ Why not ? ” 

Tommy covered his eyes. “I — I can’t believe 
it!” 

The doctor was philosophic. “ They’re desperate, 
you know.” 

“But this is — is so cowardly.” Tommy was 
overcome by the ghastliness of the affair, and he 
sank weakly on a near-by cot. “ It’s awful! ” Then 
the horror of it vanished in a storm of black rage. 
He leaped to his feet, every nerve tingling with 
passion. “The snakes!” he gritted savagely 
through his clenched teeth. “ The cowards! They’ll 
pay for this! ” His hand went to his hip, fingering 
the big pistol, and his face was contorted. 

The doctor, both by training and temperament, 




24 2 


THE GREEN SCARF 


was imperturbable. Furthermore, until a fragment 
of high-explosive shell had put an end to his use¬ 
fulness, he had been in charge of a dressing station 
on the Ypres salient; his views upon such abstrac¬ 
tions as life and death and murder and cowardice 
were, in consequence, extremely heterodox. A smile, 
tolerant and ineffably sad, illumined his features, 
and he took Tommy by the arm, leading him gently 
away from the scene by the cot. 

“ Don’t misunderstand me, Cass,” he said ear¬ 
nestly. “I’m not defending it. It was murder — 
and dirty, sneaking murder at that. But don’t for¬ 
get this: A strike is only another name for war. 
And everything goes in war. I know.” A momen¬ 
tary shadow of pain darkened his face, and his 
thoughts seemed far away. Then he resumed 
quietly: “Those fellows who did this are fighting 
for their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred 
honor.” 

“They think they are,” interrupted Tommy bit¬ 
terly. 

“ It’s the same thing. Right or wrong, they’re 
fighting. These chaps in here, the poor devil who’s 
dead — well, they’re the enemy. As long as they’re 
left on the job, they’re winning. If they can’t be 
put off any other way, why—kill ’em! That’s what 
war is, when you peel the sentimental nonsense off 
—just killing!” 



THE GREEN SCARF 


243 


“ Gee — you’re cold-blooded! ” exclaimed Tommy 
from the heart. 

The doctor sighed. “Not I. But death doesn’t 
stir my pulse much any more.” 

“Well, it stirs mine!” cried Tommy. “Would 
you sit tight and let those swine get away with 
stuff like this? Wouldn’t you-” 

Wilson held up his hand. “ I told you not to mis¬ 
understand. I’m neither practical nor ethical. I 
can’t tell you what you ought to do, nor whether 
it’s right if you do it. I’m merely asking you to 
remember that, put in the same fix, even you — yes, 
you —might poison somebody’s soup, too. War 
isn’t a ball game, with the bench for rowdy play. 
It — it’s war, that’s all. I — I could tell you sto¬ 
ries -” 

“It — it’s a horrible shock to me,” muttered 
Tommy, choking. “I — I never ran up against any¬ 
thing like this.” 

The doctor nodded sympathetically. “ I know. I 
cursed like a madman over the first case I had at 
the front. A beautiful lad — his face gone! God, 
how I raved at the Germans! But one gets over 
that.” 

“I suppose so,” said Tommy wretchedly. His 
head dropped upon his breast. He was not aware 
of it when the doctor slipped quietly away to his 
still-unconscious patient. 





244 


THE GREEN SCARF 


Tommy never knew how long he sat in reverie, 
pondering on the doctor’s words. But presently, 
as if it had always been there, he became conscious 
of a resolve in his soul, crystal clear and insistent. 
He rose soberly. His features were composed, not 
grimly, but in the mild resoluteness with which 
brave men, unconscious of their bravery, face peril. 

Wilson caught a glimpse of him as he passed on 
his way out. The boy’s expression startled him. 
He had seen it before. Once, on the face of a spy 
in Picardy, being led out to be shot. Again on the 
face of a young British soldier who had volunteered 
to bring in a wounded comrade from a shell-swept 
field. He had seen it many times, but never too 
often to dull his awe. Always it brought a catch 
to his throat, and a feeling of tears. There was 
an exquisite beauty in it, a poignancy of emotion 
aroused which could not be expressed. He won¬ 
dered what it signified, radiant and mysterious, in 
the gleaming eyes of young Cass. 

It was true. Tommy had made a resolution — 
a resolution so reasonable, so profoundly simple, 
that few would have thought of it or comprehended 
it at all if they had. There were many people who 
considered Tommy a trifle “ queer,” largely because, 
in a world filled with self-imposed complexities and 
grinning shadow shapes born of perverse imagina¬ 
tion, the next step, the obvious step, is, to most of 



THE GREEN SCARF 


245 


us, the last one thought of. Essentially simple peo¬ 
ple always seem “ queer.” While those about him 
debated and philosophized and in devious indirec¬ 
tion sought their ends, Tomm}^ always did the mag¬ 
nificently mad thing of going straight to the point. 

He halted, thoughtful, for a moment outside the 
dormitory. Then he went downstairs to the locker 
room and put away his pistol. For such a task as 
he had set for himself weapons would be a hin¬ 
drance. This done, he smiled, with the same placid 
resolution on his face which had so intrigued the 
doctor, and slipped out of the factory by the rear 
door. 

He knew exactly where to go, thanks to his ear¬ 
nest efforts through the months to familiarize him¬ 
self by actual experience with the lives of the hum¬ 
bler workers. The saloon of Mrs. Ruby Winternitz 
was the axis about which a large part of the human 
equation in the Champion Paint and Varnish Com¬ 
pany revolved. 

He hesitated on the street outside underneath 
the gas-lighted sign. The growling throb of many 
voices came to him through the rattan doors, and 
the shuffle of heavy feet on the sawdust-covered 
floor. He hesitated, partly because he was doubt¬ 
ful and partly because he was afraid. It was a 
testimony to his courage that he knew he was afraid. 

Then he pulled himself together sharply and 



246 


THE GREEN SCARF 


pushed open the swinging doors. Momentarily 
blinded by the abrupt change from the dark street 
to the many lights within, he stood motionless. For 
an instant, but a long one, he was merely a new¬ 
comer, quite ignored. Then some one in the sweat¬ 
ing, arguing crowd lined up before the bar recog¬ 
nized him. His name was shouted, with a scurrilous 
epithet for emphasis. As if by magic, utter silence 
fell upon the place. And then, as iron filings group 
themselves about the poles of a magnet, there was 
a noisy scuffle of boots, and Tommy found him¬ 
self in the center of an ominously inquiring circle 
of faces. He recognized many of those staring at 
him—faces of men whom in days past he had 
called friends. But there was no friendliness in 
them now. 

“Well,” said one presently, when the silence had 
become unbearable. “What do you want?” 

Tommy’s lip curled. “Nothing with you, Mc- 
Graw. Where’s Devine and Wetzel and-” 

“What d’ye want them for?” The question 
came from a short, heavily built man with dull, 
furtive eyes, who had thrust himself forward in 
the crowd. 

Tommy surveyed the newcomer coldly. “ That,” 
he answered deliberately, “ is my Business.” 

The man laughed soundlessly, showing a line of 
ragged, yellow teeth. “Your business, eh? You 




THE GREEN SCARF 


247 


come from Burroughs, I guess.” 

“ I come for myself.” 

“About the strike?” 

“What business is that of yours?” 

The smaller man's lips drew back wolfishly, and 
his teeth clinked on the answer: “ I happen to be 

runnin’ this show. If ye got anythin’ to say, say 
it to me. An’ say it quick. My name’s Moran.” 

From the respectful attention accorded this speech 
by the others, it was evident that he spoke the truth. 
Tommy eyed him. “You’re responsible for what 
goes on?” His voice trembled ever so slightly. 

“Iam.” 

“Then, Mr. Moran”—Tommy’s jaw was thrust 
out, and he stepped forward—“you’re the dirtiest 
cur that ever drew breath!” 

The small man paled at the insult, and a threaten¬ 
ing growl went up from his followers. But his 
emotions were well under control. 

“Why?” he asked smoothly. 

Tommy turned to the men clustering about him. 
His eyes blazed and he swept their heavy faces con¬ 
temptuously. “You fools!” he snapped. “To 
trust a rattlesnake-” 

“ Hoi’ on, kid! ” Moran, still calm, but ominous, 
raised his hand. “ Be careful what ye say.” 

For reply Tommy’s clenched fist shook under the 
other’s nose. “You keep your mouth shut, you — 




24 & 


THE GREEN SCARF 


you murderer! ” 

Moran’s hand, quick as lightning, went to his 
pocket. But Tommy, a boxer from childhood, was 
quicker. The weapon flashed in the air and clat¬ 
tered harmlessly on the floor as Tommy’s wiry fin¬ 
gers closed around the other’s wrist. At the same 
time, like a rock from a catapult, Tommy’s left shot 
out, and Moran went sprawling, his lips aflame with 
curses. A startled growl from the others echoed 
him. Tommy felt the menacing ring tighten around 
him. Hot, sweating faces, grotesquely shadowed 
in the dancing gas-light, were thrust into his. 

“Wait!” he shouted above the clamor. “D’you 
fellows know what’s happened?” 

“No,” was the jeering response from the out¬ 
skirts of the mob. “ But we know what will! ” A 
burst of ribald laughter greeted the sally. 

Tommy tried again, and the blazing earnestness 
in his eyes compelled to silence. “ I called that cur 
on the floor a murderer. I meant murderer. In 
the factory tonight, one of the men-” 

“ Scabs! ” snarled a raucous voice. 

“A scab if you like. But he’s dead. D’you hear 
that? Dead from food poisoned by you. If that 
man”—he thrust a trembling finger at Moran, just 
getting to his feet—“if that man’s responsible, 
he’ll hang for it. But you”—his hand swept the 
mob in a fiercely scornful gesture—“every 




THE GREEN SCARF 


249 


cowardly, sneaking one of you’s responsible for 
him!” 

It was news to all of them — startling news. A 
sudden hush fell upon them, and men looked at one 
another or at the floor, stirring uncomfortably. But 
Moran was no mean psychologist. And he was ex¬ 
perienced. In that shocked, hesitant moment he 
saw very clearly the peril to his own power and to 
the cause it represented. He stepped forward. 

“One man’s dead, you say?” he asked quietly. 

“Yes,” answered Tommy. “Are you proud?” 

“Dead, eh?” Moran turned slightly and his 
flickering gray eyes searched the dull faces about 
him. Abruptly his voice rose. “ Hell, then there’s 
one less scab to steal our jobs off’n us!” he cried 
passionately. “There ain’t a death that’s quick 
enough fer a scab. Murder, eh? What d’ye call 
it w’en the bosses grind the poor workingman down 
an’ down until he wishes he was dead, if he ain’t? 
That’s worse than murder! Am I right, boys ? ” 

He swung round to the listening men and his 
leaden eyes glittered. Not for nothing had he ac¬ 
quired his reputation as an “organizer.” He was 
an exceedingly wise little man. He knew just how 
slightly men think and how infinitely more they 
feel. The instinct for leadership was his in full 
measure—the chill brain and the flaming tongue, 
buttressed with the imponderables of gesture and 



250 


THE GREEN SCARF 


voice. And incidentally he really meant a great 
deal, if not perhaps quite all, that he said. 

For an instant the decision trembled in the bal¬ 
ance. Then, with a snarling volley of oaths, they 
gave testimony to his power. He turned back to 
Tommy, a faint, ironic smile flickering in the °ray 
depths of his eyes. 

“ Go back, to the guy who sent ye! ” he shouted 
hoarsely, the venom in his voice contrasting 
strangely with the quiet acumen of his smile. “Tell 
’im there ain’t no mercy in our hearts fer scabs — 
nor fer them as hires ’em. Tell ’im he’s got a 
fight on ’is hands. Mebbe he thinks we’re playing 
pinochle — but we ain’t!” 

Harsh laughter echoed the pleasantry, and the 
men, every hesitant emotion quelled, surged for¬ 
ward, definitely menacing. 

In the cruel derision of that laughter Tommy 
saw clearly that he had lost, and the color mounted 
in his cheeks. “ Don’t go too far,” he pleaded, al¬ 
most tearfully. “Murder is murder, for all this 
fellow can say.” 

“ Tell yer boss that,” jeered Moran. “ How many 
men’s been killed in that plant o’ his ? ” 

Tommy’s voice shook with the earnestness of his 
appeal. “ Poison,” he began, all the loathing of his 
soul for the underhanded burning in the word. But 
Moran interrupted. 



THE GREEN SCARF 


£51 


“Yeah, poison,” he repeated savagely. “How 
many men has Burroughs dosed with lead poisonin’ 
in his lovely paint fact’ry? He’s the undertaker’s 
bes’ friend, he is!” 

There was a hoarse burst of appreciation for the 
bitter jest, and a flood of jeering catcalls. Tommy 
shrugged his shoulders wearily and turned to go. 
It was all over. His attempt at “getting together” 
had failed miserably. He felt enormously humili¬ 
ated. It could not even be said, he realized pres¬ 
ently, that he had failed in his purpose. He had 
had no purpose. He had fared forth like a knight 
of old — or perhaps merely like a very small and 
unsophisticated boy, with no more definite purpose 
than to appeal to reasonableness and decency and 
fairness. He had found none of those things. He 
had found only a passion-swept, unreasoning hate 
— simply incomprehensible. He himself had never 
really hated any one or anything in all his amiable 
young life. It flashed upon him painfully that one 
cannot hope to fight fire who has never been burned. 

On the whole, he had merely succeeded in mak¬ 
ing himself ridiculous. 

The affair might have ended there. He had noth¬ 
ing more to say, and he meant to go out of the 
saloon quietly and resignedly. But Moran, like 
many a greater general, o’erleaped himself in the 
flush of victory. 



252 


THE GREEN SCARF 


His yellow teeth bared in a sneer. “ You’d bet¬ 
ter go while the goin’s good,” he said, with a scorn¬ 
ful laugh. 

Tommy halted as if stopped by a blow, swinging 
sharply on his heel. Disappointment and humilia¬ 
tion vanished and he turned suddenly white. He 
had not only been unsuccessful; he had been mis¬ 
understood. They thought his quiet departure 
■flight! The idea was intolerable. Primal instincts 
burst the trappings of reasonableness. He stepped 
toward Moran. 

“Were you talking to me?” he asked frostily. 

“Aw, fergit it!” was the reply, accompanied by 
an epithet not printable. 

Tommy’s fist leaped out like a sword from its 
scabbard. There was the indescribable crunch of 
flesh against flesh and Moran for the second time 
went down in a smother of curses. 

For an instant there was startled silence. Then, 
with an animal snarl, a dozen figures leaped for 
revenge. Tommy seized a chair and backed to¬ 
ward the door, brandishing it above his head. 
“Keep off!” he shouted. A man dived for his 
legs, and the chair came crashing down in a vicious 
splintering. The man collapsed like a wet rag and 
lay very still, a dark stain widening in the sawdust 
around his head. “Keep off, I say! I’ll kill the 
first man who starts anything!” The blood lust 



THE GREEN SCARF 


2 53 


was in his nostrils, drowning out such ordinary 
things as reasonableness and the stench of stale 
beer. He knew hate at last! There was a burn¬ 
ing glitter in his eyes, and his lips were parted in 
something like a smile. A cruel, ruthless, killing 
smile. 

A bottle came hurtling through the air, smashing 
musically on the wall behind him. Three men 
rushed him at once. The broken fragment of the 
chair rose and fell like the walking beam of a steam¬ 
boat and he kicked out savagely with his foot. One 
of the men stumbled and fell on his face, grotesque 
and inert. Another backed off, nursing a wrist 
which hung limp like a broken wing. But the third, 
sprawling before a blow which opened a grinning 
red gash in his lip, thrust out his foot shrewdly. 
Tommy spun around, ducked quickly to avoid an¬ 
other bottle, lost his balance on the slippery saw¬ 
dust, and went down heavily, swinging what was 
left of the chair in murderous circles. 

The mob fell upon him in an avalanche of sweat¬ 
ing, clawing flesh. A sharp pain stabbed him in 
the cheek and he felt the taste of blood. Something 
heavy struck him in the forehead, almost stunning 
him. One eye was dim. “The cowards!” he 
sobbed, tearing and thrusting at the countless greasy 
faces closing in upon him. “It wasn’t fair!” He 
was wearying rapidly. His arms were wooden. He 



254 


THE GREEN SCARF 


fought savagely, his breath coming in gasps. The 
tears rolled down his cheeks in an ecstasy of anger. 
God! How he hated them! 

Then there was an explosion in the back of his 
head as of a thousand cannon and he lost conscious¬ 
ness. But not until he had heard a shrill cry of 
warning and the quick rush of scattering feet. Be¬ 
fore the black pall closed over him he realized dimly 
that he was lying in the chaos of broken glass and 
blood and wrecked chairs, quite alone. 

Presently he became aware that the floor under 
him had grown strangely soft and that it was roll¬ 
ing and swaying like a ship in a gale. He tried to 
remember what had happened. The problem was 
too difficult. He decided to postpone it. For the 
present it was enough to know that he ached in a 
thousand places and that the top of his head had 
apparently been removed, exposing the raw brain, 
upon which red-hot salt had been liberally sprinkled. 

He opened his eyes, blinking. “What’s up?” he 
whispered feebly. There was no answer. Then he 
heard the muffled clang of a bell from somewhere 
near at hand. “I say!” he shouted, beginning to 
be alarmed. “ What the dickens is going on ? ” Still 
there was no reply, though he fancied he heard 
voices. 

He stretched out his arm. It touched something 
soft and yielding, slightly rough. He was extremely 



THE GREEN SCARF 


255 


puzzled. He could distinguish nothing around him, 
though his eyes were unquestionably wide open. He 
raised his voice to shout another frantic question. 
But the jolting suddenly stopped and a stream of 
dim light poured in from behind his head. 

“Oh, ho,” he muttered from between lips which 
seemed oddly thick, “I appear to be in an ambu¬ 
lance!” 

“Feelin’ better, are you?” said a gruff voice at 
his elbow. 

Despite considerable pain, Tommy sat upright. 
“ Fve not only gone to the wars, Lucasta,” he said 
gravely, addressing the darkness, “but I’ve come 
back.” 

He had a detached certainty that the observation 
was perhaps ambiguous; that it might not be under¬ 
stood. Some one might even think him out of his 
head. He resolved to be silent. The clouds in his 
brain dissipated presently and he was able to express 
his determination to leave the ambulance without 
assistance quite rationally. He climbed out alone, 
albeit a trifle unsteady as to legs. 

It was obvious that he had suffered a very ade¬ 
quate beating, and he was a little aggrieved that 
more sympathy was not extended by the hospital at¬ 
tendants. Like people who loathe dancing but love 
to be invited, he had no desire to tarry in the dis¬ 
agreeable precincts of white linen and iodoform, but 



256 


THE GREEN SCARF 


he did think they might at least urge him not to 
hurry away. He considered the examination of his 
battered head to be little short of perfunctory, and 
the way he was dismissed was almost insulting. 
Singular weakness — pride! Man yields to it on 
any pretext, even to a battered head. 

In the taxi which took him home, however, he 
forgot the chill indifference of doctors, and even 
chuckled at his own resentment. He had other 
things to think about. 

He had, of course, by his visit to the saloon of 
the Widow Winternitz, accomplished exactly noth¬ 
ing. And yet the moment that fact was established 
he began to think that the visit, even to its all but 
tragic outcome, had not been without a certain 
profit. He had learned one truth permanently, in¬ 
disputably, and attested the discovery with his own 
blood, viz.: that war was war, whether it spent it¬ 
self in the mud of Flanders, over abstractions of 
polity and economics, or poisoned inoffensive strike 
breakers who fondly believed in their inalienable 
right to work for whom, when, and what they 
chose. 

The men in uniform who pulled the lanyards of 
4.7 instruments of destruction in an earnest effort 
to blow the world into sympathy with their social 
and political ideals were merely a magnification of 
the sweating mob which had tried to kill him with 



THE GREEN SCARF 


257 


beer bottles and broken chairs because he differed 
with them. The principle behind the nobly waving 
battle flag and the ignobly waving fist of Mr. Moran 
was identical. Its essence operated apparently all 
along the cosmic line, from ice in the creviced rocks 
to the most recondite ultimates of idealism. And 
that essence was the perfectly simple and utterly 
inescapable face of force. 

One fought to win. No less, no more. If death 
were a weapon, one used it. Even poison. Cow¬ 
ardly? What of it? What did the conqueror care 
for the morals of the dogs which dragged his 
chariot ? 

He recalled the phrase of Von Buelow, the sar¬ 
donic old man, peering into the future of Europe,: 
“ Pressure — counter pressure — explosion.” 

Burroughs — the hundreds like him — forever 
pressing downward with their iron and pitiless 
hands. And underneath, the knotted backs forever 
thrusting upward. Explosion? Of course. The 
thing was inexorable. 

And after the explosion — what then? Merely 
more of them ? He did not know. 

Was it possible that the heaving back and the 
heavy hand might one day thrust together ? 

Was peace — in the large and in the small—- 
possible ? He did not know that, either. 

But it was worth thinking about. 



CHAPTER XIV 


T HE next day was Sunday. Tommy spent 
most of the morning in bed, fighting a los¬ 
ing batde against the fear that he would never walk 
again. He had the word of the ambulance sur¬ 
geon, as well as even greater savants at the hos¬ 
pital, that he had suffered damage neither vital nor 
permanent. But he was inclined to think them mis¬ 
taken. 

A quick turn of his head sent torrents of liquid 
fire down the back of his neck. His teeth felt 
strangely insecure, and he put his finger on them 
gingerly, striving to reassure himself. Bruises! 
With a highly scientific thumb he probed exhaus¬ 
tively over his anatomy. There was not a spot 
which was not sore to the gentlest touch. Groan¬ 
ing at the movement, he turned over on his side for 
another doze. The fact that the sun was in his 
eyes was unpleasant, but the desirability of having 
the shade drawn seemed scarcely proportionate to 
the agony of getting out of bed to draw it. 

By noontime, however, the pangs of hunger had 
become more acute than the aching of his limbs. 
He postponed action, minute by minute, wondering 
258 


THE GREEN SCARF 


259 


whether immediate, though purely comparative, 
comfort offset the emptiness of his stomach. 
Finally, with a sigh and a resolute compression of 
the lips, he threw off the covers, and proceeded very 
carefully to work his stiffened frame into his clothes. 

Luncheon, even the enormously unsatisfactory af¬ 
fair of greasy mutton and carbonized potatoes and 
pale mauve gelatin, with which the boarding house 
signalized the Sabbath, made him feel much bet¬ 
ter. Despite a soreness in the back of his head, 
and one eye almost totally eclipsed in a purple 
penumbra, he was glad to discover that his dismal 
outlook of the morning had been unfounded. 

The thought made him feel suddenly lonely. 
There was so much to say, and no one to say it 
to. No one, that is, who would understand. Old 
Pop Farr, perhaps. At least he’d seem to — which 
was almost as good. But Pop was somewhere in 
France, rounding out a contemplation of architec¬ 
ture in driving an ambulance. There was no one 
in the boarding house. He glanced around the 
dingy parlor, untidy with the remnants of the Sun¬ 
day papers. Forgetful of his aching joints, he flew 
to the telephone. 

“Miss Manard, please,” he said almost breath¬ 
lessly. “Hello — Anne? Say, doin’ anything this 
afternoon? Well, how about a walk? Fine! Meet 
you on the old corner.” He hung up the receiver, 



26 o 


THE GREEN SCARF 


chuckling. There certainly was somebody who un¬ 
derstood ! 

He waited until they had found a quiet spot 
near the lagoon, secure from interruption, before 
he told her what had happened in the saloon of the 
Widow Winternitz. His narrative was a rather 
bald affair, partly because he was temperamentally 
incapable of elaboration upon his own adventures 
and partly because he was too painfully conscious 
of its essential absurdity. But what he reserved or 
glozed over she was intuitive enough to fill in for 
herself. 

Her eyes grew wide. “Oh, Tommy!” She laid 
her hand on his arm. He observed, not without 
satisfaction, that it trembled. “Y-you might have 
been killed! ” 

He assented cheerfully. “The police didn’t get 
there a minute too soon.” 

“But what in the world made you go there — 
such a dangerous thing to do! ” 

It was the obvious question, and inevitable, albeit 
he had hoped against hope that she would not ask 
it. He squirmed uncomfortably. “I — I’m hanged 
if I really know,” he confessed truthfully. 

“ But you must have had some idea! ” 

He scratched his head doubtfully. “ I suppose I 
did. But it — it’s hard to make anybody under¬ 
stand. I — I don’t think I understand it myself.” 



THE GREEN SCARF 


261 


Her clear eyes looked into his. “ Let me try,” she 
urged softly. 

“Well, it’s simple enough — in a way. Their 
poisoning that poor wop was like opening a door 
all of a sudden and seeing—hell. I’d never realized 
that strikes were as bad as that. I — I couldn’t be¬ 
lieve somehow that they really meant to do such 
a thing. It was like being in an argument with a 
fellow and having him pull a knife on you. I knew 
a lot of those strikers personally. Mighty decent 
chaps, too. I just couldn’t understand it. I 
thought they must have gone clean out of their 
heads. I got the notion that — well, the best thing 
to do was to get together, sort of, and talk it all 
over — sensibly.” 

“What a boy you are!” she murmured, her eyes 
strangely moist. 

“I’m an infant,” he answered dejectedly. “I 
nearly lost my precious scalp learning it, but I did 
learn it. The thing’s gotten past any talking over. 
Everybody’s desperate. Common sense and de¬ 
cency and — well, it’s the same sweet mess they’re 
staging in Europe. I was just a little Rollo, the 
angel child, with a package of tracts, trying to put 
salt on the tail of a forty-two-centimeter shell!” 
He laughed at himself scornfully. 

She spoke with a catch in her voice. “It 
wouldn’t be good for you, Tommy, if I told you 



262 


THE GREEN SCARF 


what I think of you.” 

“I’m a poor fish!” he insisted brusquely. “I 
hope nobody but you will ever know what an awful 
darned fool I was.” 

“But you’re not a darned fool! You — you’re 
splendid! ” 

He waved the compliment aside derisively. “ In¬ 
deed I am — a splendid ass, if ever there was one! ” 
Then his mind went on to the bigger problem. 
“They are, too,” he declared grimly. “All of them 
— even Burroughs. It’s kill and destroy and fight 
to beat the enemy. And then what have you got? 
Why can’t we get together before the fighting starts 
and keep together? Each side needs the other. 
Why — why should there be sides at all?” 

She stared at him, frankly amazed. Was this 
the diffident, thoughtless lad who had blundered 
through electro cases scarcely a year ago ? It hardly 
seemed possible. 

“Strikes and scrapping and — and, oh, all that 
sort of thing, are so —so wasteful!” he went on 
seriously, a deep cleft between his eyes. “Isn’t 
there any way of getting the under dog a square 
deal without them?” 

“What do you think?” 

He picked up a twig and snapped it between his 
strong fingers, unconsciously. “ You’d probably say 
that Burroughs — and the men in similar positions 



THE GREEN SCARF 


263 


— do give a square deal.” 

“Don’t you think they do?” 

“ Perhaps — sometimes. But the point is they 
give it, don’t you see? It — it’s a kind of charity. 
And the under dog can’t help thinking that a square 
deal’s his by right. Burroughs talks about * reason¬ 
able’ wages. But there isn’t any such thing. A 
man takes what he can get. He won’t admit that 
there are any limits.” He broke off, chuckling to 
himself. 

“ What are you laughing at ? ” 

“I was just thinking how different business was 
from what I thought it was going to be. I — I 
haven’t found what I expected.” 

“What did you think you’d find?” She tried 
to concentrate on his answer, but she found herself 
singularly distracted by his superb complexion, its 
clear, smooth freshness intensified by the dark stain 
of the damaged eye. 

What had he expected to find? The question 
found him hesitant. 

“Was it money?” she supplied, watching him 
closely. 

“No,” he said shortly. “Lord —no!” Then 
he bit his lip, flushing. “If I tell you what I — I 
think I’m beginning to find, you — you’ll think I’m 
trying to talk like a little tin saint.” 

“Perhaps I know without your telling. You’re 



264 


THE GREEN SCARF 


finding business a bigger thing than you ever thought 
it was, aren’t you, Tommy?” 

“ It’s immense! ” he exclaimed fervently. 

“More than you dream, boy,” she whispered. 
“But not too big to need you.” 

“Me? What for?” 

“ Because you bring to it something that it needs 
very badly — just such a dear, honest, sentimental 
heart as yours is.” She halted abruptly, as if she 
feared she had said too much. The moment was 
pregnant with possibilities, and her heart fluttered. 
But Tommy’s was a mind which ran upon a single 
track; it did not occur to him to switch. 

“Did I ever tell you about Pop Farr — and the 
green scarf ? ” he asked reminiscently, his eyes fixed 
on the circles he was drawing with his stick. “ Funny 
chap, Pop. Queer notions he had.” 

Something in his voice told her that his soul was 
opening shyly, like the petals of some rarely flower¬ 
ing plant. It was, she felt, a sacred moment, and 
she feared to blast it by some careless word. 

“Tell me,” she urged softly. 

So he told her, then, diffidently and with many 
thoughtful pauses, of his pilgrimage in life. The 
narrative was a singular compound of boyishness 
and extraordinary wisdom. At times he spoke like 
an oracle, scarcely conscious of the significance of 
what he said. And again, when his imagination 



THE GREEN SCARF 


265 


soared highest, he would break off suddenly, laugh¬ 
ing bashfully, suspicious that he was talking non¬ 
sense. 

Women are almost always shrewder than men 
because they are more content with the semblance 
of things. They see nothing in a soap bubble but 
its loveliness. And so it was that in Tommy’s ram¬ 
bling story Anne was satisfied to feel a singular 
charm. She was not critical. She was scarcely 
conscious of his words, nor of the vibrant eager¬ 
ness of his voice. She heard no notes and saw no 
instruments. It was to her as the music of the 
spheres, ineffable and transcendent — profoundly 
moving. 

“ Silly, isn’t it ? ” he said when he had finished. 

“ No,” she answered soberly. “ It is very beau¬ 
tiful Tommy. It — it knits everything together. It 
makes business mean something. The idea’s grow¬ 
ing, too. Success implies service these days, even 
when it’s selfish. Perhaps when men get a little 
wiser and don’t think so much, of being practical — 
of just serving for its own sake—perhaps then 

if 

He looked up at her gratefully. “You don’t 
think I’m nutty, do you, Anne?—talking like this?” 

She faced him with swimming eyes. “You 
blessed lad — this hard, blind, old world needs pil¬ 
grims like you to lead it up on the high places where 



266 


THE GREEN SCARF 


it can see how great its destiny is.” 

“ Maybe so.” He shook his head ruefully. “ But 
I’m just a kid. It — it seems so silly for me to think 
that I know more than Burroughs does.” 

Instinctively she went to the heart of his diffi¬ 
culty. “You don’t know more, Tommy; not nearly 
as much. Maybe you never will. But you feel. It’s 
an absurd comparison to make — she was a girl — 
but I can’t help thinking of Joan of Arc. What 
did she know of war? But she saw visions. Men 
will always follow those who see visions.” 

“You’ve changed, Anne,” he said abruptly. 
“Last time we talked like this you called me down.” 

She blushed, caught off her guard. “I — why, 
I — one has to change, of course. But I-” 

A ray of understanding penetrated his mind. He 
reached out and took her hand. “You told me I 
was an empty slate,” he whispered, “ and now ? ” 

She withdrew her hand quickly, but her breast 
rose and fell. “You have come up very fast, Tom¬ 
my,” she breathed tremulously. 

He watched her, a wondering smile playing about 
his lips. “Anne — about Burroughs: Is he still 
ace-high ? ” 

She managed to ask him what he meant. 

“You know perfectly well,” he replied. “Are 
all the things he can give you — do they still count 
so much?” 




THE GREEN SCARF 


267 


The movement of her head was delayed, and all 
but imperceptible when it came. But it satisfied 
him. A hermit thrush burst into song in the depths 
of the shrubbery. Tommy waited until the sweetly 
liquid notes had ceased. Then his arm shot out and 
around Anne’s waist. Almost roughly he drew her 
toward him. 

“ I love you, little girl,” he breathed huskily, “ like 
the dickens! You — you’re the kind of chum I 
want. I never knew there were girls like you.” 

She struggled to free herself, but he held her fast. 
“Please, Tommy,” she begged. “You mustn’t!” 

“Why?” His strong arms tightened. The feel 
of her supple figure intoxicated him. “I tell you 
I love you! ” he cried passionately. “ Nothing what¬ 
ever matters but that! ” He forced her nearer, and 
his lips met hers in a kiss which turned his blood 
to fire. “ I’m perfectly crazy about you! ” Again 
he kissed her — and again, quite oblivious to the 
conspicuousness of their situation. Presently it 
dawned upon him that her efforts to release her¬ 
self had weakened, that her response to the hot touch 
of his lips had been more than passive. “Anne!” 
he cried, suddenly holding her off so that he could 
see her face. “Tell me! Do you — really?” 

Her eyes were closed, and she was breathing rap¬ 
idly. Then, as if by a physical effort, she seemed 
to regain control of herself. “You can’t possibly 



268 


THE GREEN SCARF 


understand, Tommy,” she answered nervously. 
“You — you’re so simple. And it isn’t simple. But 
you — you mustn’t do that again!” 

“You’re not angry?” he asked wistfully, the mo¬ 
mentary hope fading. 

She laughed gently, smoothing the gown he had 

disarranged. “No, dear boy, I-” Her voice 

broke suddenly, and she buried her face in her arms. 
“Oh, Tommy,” she sobbed, “you make me so 
ashamed of myself! It isn’t fair. Why—why did 
you do that?” 

He was perplexed. “Oh, Anne,” he cried, pro¬ 
foundly contrite, “what did I do? I’m so sorry!” 

It was over in an instant, like a summer shower. 
He raised her head, her eyes glistening like drops 
of dew. “ Don’t pay any attention to me,” she mur¬ 
mured, her voice still a trifle unsteady. “ But prom¬ 
ise me — you won’t do that again. You mustn’t. 
You won’t, will you?” She rose, straightening her 
hat. 

“ I’m not sure,” he muttered doggedly. “ I’ll try 
to behave myself, if you say so. But unless you 
marry some one else, by Jiminy, you’re going to 
marry me!” 

She nibbled at a leaf which had dropped upon 
her sleeve, and strove to respond lightly. “Then 
let’s postpone — this sort of thing until I decide. 
It’ll be better for both of us.” 




THE GREEN SCARF 


269 


He rose slowly, and his face was morose. 
“You’re a queer girl, Anne. First you--” 

“All girls are queer, Tommy,” she said quietly. 

“But you’re not all girls. You’re just one. The 
one!” 

With a quick movement she leaned toward him 
and pulled his hat over his eyes. “Sunset, Tom¬ 
my,” she laughed teasingly. “ Let’s get back to the 
world and common sense.”' 

Unsmiling and heavy of heart he followed her 
across the grass. But his lips still tingled with the 
recollection of her kiss, and, common sense to the 
contrary, he could not shake off the conviction that 
for one ecstatic instant she had reposed in his arms, 
unresisting. It was absurd to believe it. He de¬ 
luded himself, no doubt. 

It was well enough to sip the honey of the lotos 
in Arcady for a few exquisite moments, but Tommy 
found, on Monday morning, that the world was still 
very much with him. 

The news of what had befallen him Saturday 
night in the saloon of the Widow Winternitz had 
already reached Mr. Burroughs, and a summons to 
the latter’s office was awaiting him. 

He found the president of the Champion Paint 
and Varnish Company in an evil humor. The grim 
ghosts of unfilled orders, with rapidly mounting 
losses, perched upon his desk, mocking him. He 




270 


THE GREEN SCARF 


was infuriated and alarmed by the treacherous 
poisoning, not alone for its inherent horror, but 
for the desperation it evidenced. The strike was 
going to be harder to crush than he had expected. 
He was angry to the depths of his soul. 

“ Well,’’ he demanded harshly when Tommy came 
in, “what on earth did you think you were going 
to accomplish by that business Saturday?” 

Tommy was taken aback by the reception ac¬ 
corded him. “Why, I — I thought I might get 
together with the men-” 

“Was that your affair?” 

Tommy colored at the sarcastic tone. “ No, sir. 
I don’t suppose it was. But I — I knew a lot of the 
men, and I thought-” 

“ Pretty poor thinking, Cass. Aside from having 
made a monkey of yourself, you’ve made this thing 
a devil of a lot harder for me.” 

Tommy was startled. “Why, how’s that? 

“Well, to begin with, that murder wasn’t the 
work of our men at all. Some officious I. W. W. 
crank did it. Left to themselves, our men would 
have been heartily ashamed of it. I know them, 
too. But your going and shouting a lot of silly ac¬ 
cusations at them simply amounted to giving the 
dogs a bad name and letting them live up to it.” 

“Why, gee whiz!” gasped Tommy. “I never 
thought-” 






THE GREEN SCARF 


27 1 


“Of course you didn’t think. You merely went 
off half-cocked, without thinking you needed to 
think. But you did the damage just the same. You 
crystallized a rather feeble strike into a definitely 
murderous finish fight. You gave Moran his chance. 
The men had been apathetic before. But when you 
went for him the way you did you simply made a 
martyr out of him.” 

“Why, I can’t believe-” 

Mr. Burroughs’ lacerated nerves gave way, and 
he burst into an intemperate wrath quite foreign to 
him normally. “ Good God, Cass! Why can’t you 
attend to your own affairs, instead of meddling into 
matters you don’t know a blessed thing about? 
You’ve succeeded in doubling the difficulty of my 
job.” 

Tommy hung his head. “ I’m awfully sorry, sir. 
I had no idea-” 

Mr. Burroughs was harassed by circumstances 
the more distressing for their intangibility and 
vagueness. And being quite human he tried to solace 
himself by venting his anger on the nearest indi¬ 
vidual. 

“I’d have had this thing settled by now if it 
wasn’t for you,” he complained unreasonably. 

Tommy realized that it was imperative that he re¬ 
establish himself in some measure. And he was 
hurt at the gross injustice of his condemnation. 





272 


THE GREEN SCARF 


“ Isn’t it possible to settle it — still?’’ he inquired 
timidly. 

Burroughs halted in his restless pacing of the 
office, and stared balefully. “Another brilliant 
idea! ” he exclaimed sarcastically. “ What is it this 
time?” 

Tommy hesitated. “It — it’s pretty vague. I’ve 
only been thinking that — well, why not take the 
men back and-” 

Burroughs threw himself into a chair, his mouth 
open. “ Yes, go on. This is immense! What luck 
to have a genius around the place. Go on! The 
suspense is killing me! ” He laughed harshly, and 
the color in Tommy’s cheeks deepened. 

But what was in his mind was too vital, and the 
product of too much pondering, for him to withhold 
it before mere hostility and sarcasm. “I don’t 
mean to take them back and give in absolutely,” he 
went on doggedly. “I mean-” 

Burroughs broke in, sneering: “Not absolutely, 
eh? Well, what do you mean?” 

Tommy ignored the churlish interruption. He 
continued, with lips compressed: “I mean — to 
start all over, differently.” 

“Start over, eh? You might be more definite.” 

“I don’t know enough to be definite,” said Tom¬ 
my sincerely. “I — I’ve just got a sort of hunch.” 

“Which is?” 




THE GREEN SCARF 


£73 


“Well, what’s the war in Europe about? It’s 
for democracy, isn’t it? I can’t help thinking that 
the strike’s for the same thing. If we’re for democ¬ 
racy, when it comes to the Allies, maybe we ought 
to be for it right here—under our noses.” 

“Yes, go on.” A shade of perplexity flitted over 
Burroughs’ features. 

Tommy was warming to his subject, its inchoate 
formlessness crystallizing under expression. “I 
don’t say dicker and give in. I say how about a 
new deal — entirely . Let’s establish a little democ¬ 
racy right here. Profit sharing and all that’s good 
enough as far as it goes. But it doesn’t go far 
enough — not nearly. It really isn’t sharing, you 
know. It’s just getting a reward — a gift.” 

Mr. Burroughs chewed his cigar. “You recom¬ 
mend that they share losses as well as profits — be¬ 
come stockholders actually.” 

“No,” said Tommy thoughtfully. “That 
wouldn’t be fair, either. A chap with an invest¬ 
ment of a hundred dollars isn’t able to stand a loss 
as well as a chap with a million. And if the hundred 
dollars is his only capital, he can’t stand a loss at all. 
No, you’ve got to have wages—-a fixed minimum.” 

“ Then you really don’t advocate actual sharing 
in the business ? ” 

“Not financially—no. But I think there ought 
to be more sharing in policy and all that. Why 



274 


THE GREEN SCARF 


can’t a business be run the way a nation is — this 
nation? Here we are, anti-German because Ger¬ 
many isn’t democratic, and yet we run our busi¬ 
nesses on worse than German lines! Why can’t we 
make business really democratic, and cut out all 

this scrapping and waste and suspicion and-” 

Mr. Burroughs smiled quizzically. “ You’d have 
these teamsters and packers and what not all get 
together and elect officers, I suppose. Decide how 
much they’d work ? And for how much ? ” 

Tommy, unconscious of the irony of the ques¬ 
tions, broke in eagerly: “ That’s it exactly! They’d 
elect their own leaders and be responsible themselves 
for working conditions. Then they’d really be part 
of the show. Agitators like Moran wouldn’t have 
a chance. Every man would consider the Champion 
Paint Company as himself. You wouldn’t be ‘boss.’ 

You’d be — well, president, and-” 

“You think they’d elect me?” 

“Why, of course. You’re their best bet.” 

Mr. Burroughs’ whimsical smile vanished, and 
his face clouded. “Well — they wouldn’t! They’d 
elect some smooth scamp who flattered them. 
They’d decide to work two hours a day. They’d — 
why, in three weeks they’d all be quitting to get a 
job somewhere else, because this concern would be 
broke! Cass, the best I can say for you is that you’re 
about five thousand years ahead of your time.” 





THE GREEN SCARF 


£75 


“ I don’t believe it,” declared Tommy stoutly. “ I 
know those lads. They’re not such fools as you 
might think. They’d elect the best men they could 
find, just as we try to elect the best men to govern 
our cities.” 

Burroughs laughed. “Splendid! And we get 
such perfect government, don’t we? Boodlers, in¬ 
competents -” 

Tommy protested. “ That’s not the fault of the 
principle! Maybe we do have punk government. 
But it’s getting better all the time.” 

“ I doubt it,” growled Burroughs. 

Tommy’s mind was singularly direct and pene¬ 
trating at times. “Grant that,” he said, “but isn’t 
it better to have a punk government that we’ve all 
got a finger in than a better one that we haven’t any¬ 
thing to do with — and revolutions brewing all the 
time?” 

“I fail to see any connection,” said Mr. Bur¬ 
roughs coldly. 

Tommy was undeterred. “It’s the same thing. 
These fellows aren’t striking merely for a certain 
increase in pay-” 

“ They said they were.” 

“ I know. But even if they get it they won’t be 
satisfied.” 

“Why not?” 

“ Because they’re not trying to get so much and 




276 


THE GREEN SCARF 


no more — but all. Pretty soon there’d be another 
strike, and another, until they’d bled the business 
dry. They aren’t reasonable. They aren’t loyal. 
They don’t give a darn whether the business suffers 
or not. It’s something they don’t belong to; they 
hate it. But no matter how they fight they can’t 
really win.” 

“Ah — you admit that?” 

“Sure. Maybe they’ll get their advance. But 
they’ll pay a big price for it! ” 

“You can bet they will!” snarled Burroughs 
savagely. 

“ Yes, they will — a big one.” Tommy hesitated, 
biting his lip. “But you — you can’t win, either. 
It’s bound to be a draw.” 

“What d’you mean by that?” 

“ I mean that, just like them, you have to pay an 
awful price for what you get. More than that, you 
can’t win for good. It isn’t a case of peace with oc¬ 
casional rows. It’s war all the time with occasional 
peace. I know those fellows, Mr. Burroughs. I’ve 
worked with ’em. I know how they feel. They 
haven’t any love for you.” 

“Do I want their precious love?” 

Tommy shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe not. 
But that’s not the point.” 

“What is?” The question was clipped off 
brusquely. 



THE GREEN SCARF 


277 


“Why—that they haven’t any loyalty for the 
company; that’s the point. They’re not part of it, 
I tell you. They hate it, like Uncle Tom hated 
Simon Legree. Machines can’t hate. Give ’em oil 
and they’ll do their best for you. But these fellows 
aren’t machines. They don’t do their best the way 

things are now. They never will, as long as-” 

“ Labor,” began Mr. Burroughs heavily, “ is-” 

Tommy cut him short. “ That’s just the trouble,” 
he cried hotly. “You think of those fellows as 
4 labor.’ But they aren’t labor. They’re human be¬ 
ings— just like you and me. You’ve got to get to¬ 
gether with ’em — treat ’em like equals. They’ve 
got pride.” 

Mr. Burroughs bit off the end of a fresh cigar. 
“ Umn! ” he said thoughtfully. His mind persisted 
in wandering from the subject in hand. It was curi¬ 
ous, but he was thinking rather more of Tommy’s 
appearance than of what he said. The lad’s un¬ 
blemished skin glowed with his enthusiasm, and the 
white teeth sparkled in a smile which was undeni¬ 
ably pleasing. The boy was good to look upon; 
there was no question of that. 

That fact led to another fact. Mr. Burroughs’ 
jaw hardened. His eyes closed, and a picture 
formed in his memory. It was not a pleasant pic¬ 
ture. It is never pleasant for a man to recall the 
circumstances of defeat. There had been a singular 




278 


THE GREEN SCARF 


finality to Anne’s words. Always before there had 
been a tenuous suggestion of mere procrastination. 
But that suggestion existed no longer. She had 
been very gentle, regretful even; but she had been 
positive. He knew, in his heart, that the hope was 
dead. He was even resigned to it. But the wound 
was still too fresh for him to be tolerant of the hand 
which, he knew, had inflicted it. In a word and to 
be specific, Mr. Burroughs was jealous. 

He opened his eyes and fixed them upon Tommy, 
staring at him almost incredulously. A white anger 
fumed in their depths. “Has it occurred to you, 
Cass,” he inquired smoothly, but with a bitter pas¬ 
sion trembling in the words, “ that in telling me how 
this business should be run you have been — just a 
little — shall we say, presumptuous?” 

Tommy was surprised, and showed it. “Why, 
n-no,” he stammered, flushing. “ I certainly didn’t 
mean to be.” 

“You know what hell is paved with!” snapped 
Burroughs. “The fact remains that you have the 
colossal nerve to pick flaws in the methods of very 
much older and wiser men.” 

Tommy felt profoundly humiliated. “I’m aw¬ 
fully sorry, sir. I didn’t mean anything like that. I 
was merely trying to figure out something that 
would suit everybody. Something’s wrong — some¬ 
where. You’ve got to admit that. It must be pretty 



THE GREEN SCARF 


279 


bad when men’ll do murder on account of it.” 

Mr. Burroughs leaned back and puffed steadily 
at his cigar. He found it impossible to look at the 
handsome lad before him and control his feelings. 

“ When you came here, Cass,” he said presently, 
as if to himself, “ I had high hopes for you. You 
were serious and intelligent. I may say that I took 
more interest in you than in any one I ever had here. 
I made a deliberate effort to teach you the business 
thoroughly. There was a big place waiting for 
you.” 

“I — I certainly appreciated it, too,” breathed 
Tommy huskily. 

Mr. Burroughs’ voice grew harder. “ You made 
a fine start. But somewhere, somehow — you got 
off the track. You will remember that I warned you 
more than once. I saw the danger. But you didn’t 
choose to listen. You got deeper and deeper into a 
line of thought that — that leads nowhere.” 

“I meant to do right,” said Tommy meekly. 

“ No doubt. But that doesn’t alter the fact that 
you have succeeded merely in convincing me that — 
that my hopes for you were unfounded.” 

“ Yes, sir,” muttered Tommy, his heart like a ball 
of lead. 

“You might have gone far, Cass — very far. 
But apparently you preferred to waste your time 
and ability dreaming of meaningless Utopias. This 



28o 


THE GREEN SCARF 


is a hard business, my boy, and a hard world. It 
demands concentration. And it demands loyalty, 
of a sort you don’t understand. I’m sorry; it’s need¬ 
less for me to say so. I’m sorrier than I can tell 
you. But your usefulness with us is at an end.” 

Tommy choked, and the tears started into his 
eyes. “You mean—I-” 

Mr. Burroughs’ head inclined. There was no 
mistaking his meaning. “I want you to stay, of 
course, until you make another connection.” 

For a moment Tommy sat staring, wide-eyed, at 
the figure across the desk. A flood of protest trem¬ 
bled on his lips, but he was too stunned for utter¬ 
ance. Then all control deserted him suddenly, and 
he fled without speaking. 

Straight to the cellar and the solitude of the coal 
bunkers he went. And there, for a minute or two, 
he gave himself up to the agony of his humiliation. 
Tears there were, and a few bitter, if half-hearted, 
curses. He was more hurt than chagrined. Then 
presently, when the sharpness of the blow had dulled 
a little, he dried his eyes, properly ashamed of his 
unmanly weakness, and went upstairs in search of 
the sympathy he knew so well where to find. 

Anne’s reception of the dismal intelligence was 
gratifying. It soothed his tortured pride. She was 
very angry. She said things about Mr. Burroughs 
which even he had not thought to say. She imputed 




THE GREEN SCARF 


281 


motives to the unhappy man, and charged him with 
a profundity of folly, which to Tommy was as 
shocking as it was comforting. 

Her defense of his own motives was enormously 
pleasing. She understood so wonderfully. But he 
did not guess how vastly much more she understood 
than he thought she did. Intuitively she had grasped 
the real explanation of Mr. Burroughs’ action, and 
she knew that the slightest hint of it would drive the 
shadows from the boy's eyes; but for reasons good 
and sufficient to herself she did not give the hint. 

She did, however, give free and eloquent rein to 
her resentment. Indeed, she espoused Tommy's 
cause with such fervor that in simple fairness he 
felt constrained to disagree. 

He grinned weakly. “Hold on, old girl! I’m 
not a saint, you know. In fact, I guess I’ve been 
a good deal of a darned fool.” 

“ You haven’t at all! ” she declared stoutly. “ It’s 
simply that in a world of blind men any one with 
eyes is unpopular.” 

He shook his head. “ No, sir. I butted in where 
it wasn’t my business. I am just a kid, you know. 
And I did have nerve telling Burroughs how he 
ought to run things. I guess I got what was coming 
to me all right.” 

She would not listen to his deprecation of him¬ 
self. “ You’re the most valuable person in the com- 



282 


THE GREEN SCARF 


pany,” she insisted with conviction. “ You’re the 
only one who can see ahead of his nose.” 

“What makes you think that?” he queried, smil¬ 
ing at her earnestness. 

“Because,” she replied, “they’re treating you 
just like prophets are always treated.” 

He laughed unaffectedly. “Me? A prophet? 
Gee, Anne — you don’t care what you say, do you! ” 

“It’s the meanest thing — so wretchedly silly, 
treating you like this! ” she cried resentfully. “ It’s 
too exasperating! I think I’ll have a talk with Mr. 
Burroughs myself.” 

He seized her wrist, his face aghast. “ Oh, no — 
you wouldn’t do that!” he exclaimed in frank 
alarm. “ I’ve got to stand on my own feet at least. 
Promise me you won’t! ” 

His apprehension was manifestly sincere, and she 
acquiesced, though reluctantly. “ Maybe you’re 
right, but I don’t think he realizes what a foolish 
thing he’s doing.” That was not true. She knew 
that Mr. Burroughs quite understood what he was 
doing. But it was not essential that Tommy should 
know that. 

Tommy sighed. “Well, now that I’m fired, I 
suppose I can smoke a cigarette,” he said with a 
doleful chuckle, fumbling through his pockets. 
“ Only, I haven’t got one. So much for good hab¬ 
its, eh?” 



THE GREEN SCARF 


283 


“I — I’m terribly sorry,” she whispered, coming 
over to him. Her eyes were moist. 

“You needn’t be,” he responded a trifle bitterly. 
“ I’ve learned my lesson. Next time I won’t monkey 
with things that don’t concern me. It’s the inno¬ 
cent bystander that gets stung every time.” 

A faint smile curved her trembling lip, and she 
shook her head. “You might be happier if that 
were true, Tommy. But it isn’t true. You’ll keep 
on meddling — though that isn’t the right word — 
wherever you are. That’s your destiny, boy.” 

“It’s a swell destiny!” he growled. 

“None could be finer,” she said gently. “Those 
clear eyes of yours are going to see what older men 
never dream of. And that honest tongue is going 
to say what wiser men are afraid to say. Yes, 
Tommy, because you’re a prophet and poet-” 

He laughed derisively. “Me—a poet? Don’t 
kid me, Anne.” 

“ I’m not. It’s the truth. This dirty toiling world 
has need of such as you. But it doesn’t know it. 
And it’ll treat you badly. It — it won’t understand. 
That’s the pity of it. But you won’t stop because of 
that?” 

He studied his finger tips. “ I suppose not,” he 
muttered wearily. “ I just can’t help being a poor 
darned nut.” A thought struck him, sickening, like 
a blow in the stomach. “ Poor old dad! It’ll be an 



284 


THE GREEN SCARF 


awful disappointment to him.” 

She put her hand on his shoulder tenderly. “ Your 
father is a very wise old man, Tommy. Very, very 
wise. Disappointed? No, I don’t think he’ll be 
that.” 

“You don’t know him, Anne. He — he’s hoped 

a lot from me. And now-” Tommy choked, 

unable to go on. 

She clapped her hands. “Keep your head up, 
boy. You’re not going to quit the race because 
you’re tripped at the start! ” 

His eyes looked into hers, full of pain. “ I sup¬ 
pose you’re disappointed, too,” he said miserably. 
“A long time ago you told me I was headed for this. 
You think I’m an ass, don’t you?” 

She smiled quizzically. “ I’m not going to tell you 
what I think of you — but it isn’t that /” 

Her words told nothing, but her tone was elo¬ 
quent. His eyes lighted up. “Anne! ” He sprang 
to his feet, his heart leaping. 

Her upraised hand checked him. “I’m awfully 
busy this morning,” she said dryly, her hands flit¬ 
ting restlessly among the papers on her desk. “If 
you’ll—” 

He bowed stiffly, and his face darkened. “ I beg 
your pardon,” he muttered. Without speaking 
again, he went out of the office. 

The sound of the door closing upon him was the 




THE GREEN SCARF 


285 


signal for a profound change in her. An unsteady 
laugh trembled on her lips. “Oh, Tommy,” she 
whispered, “you dear stupid!” Her head fell for¬ 
ward among the papers, and her shoulders heaved 
with something which was not laughter. 



CHAPTER XV 


A NNE’S emotional tempest was as brief as it 
. was violent; for in telling Tommy that she 
was busy she had spoken the literal truth. An ex¬ 
traordinarily important matter demanded her atten¬ 
tion— a matter strangely enough in no way con¬ 
cerned with the affairs of the Champion Paint and 
Varnish Company. 

A picture was vivid in her memory of a white- 
haired old man, speciously stem, puffing at his cigar 
before the glowing embers in a rough stone fire¬ 
place. Even his words were indelible in her mind: 
“ Whatever befalls my boy — of good or ill — you 
will tell me first.” 

It had been an almost sacred charge. And the 
time had come to fulfill it. Poising her pen, she 
thought for a moment. What she had to say was 
not easily expressed. But presently she began to 
write. 

She told of the misadventure which had befallen 
Tommy. She told it in great detail, with its back¬ 
ground and all that led up to it, because that was 
essential to anything like comprehension. Of the 
one aspect to Mr. Burroughs’ action which she alone 
286 


THE GREEN SCARF 


287 


fully grasped she said nothing. And she thought 
she said nothing in particular about herself. But 
it is not possible to write a dozen words, let alone a 
thousand or more, without telling a great deal about 
oneself. 

Mr. Cass received Anne’s letter at his office in the 
morning. It came as a shock, as Tommy had dole¬ 
fully foretold it would. On the other hand, how¬ 
ever, it was, at worst, the shock of a presentiment 
realized. It was a summons to action — not unex¬ 
pected. The emergency it announced had been long 
prepared for. All that was necessary was to touch 
the proper buttons, give an order or two, and allow 
the carefully formulated plan to take effect. A 
pensive rereading of one or two portions, a few 
moments’ deep thought, and he was ready for ac¬ 
tion. He summoned his secretary. 

“ The papers relating to the Champion Paint and 
Varnish Company, please.” 

When she returned with the envelope, he dictated 
a telegram which was, in effect, the mobilization of 
his forces. He had already telephoned his home, 
with instructions for the packing of his bag, and 
meeting him at the station. Within the hour every 
needful preliminary accomplished, he was browsing 
through the magazines, quite his usual placid self, in 
the smoker of the train to Chicago. 

Immediately upon arriving, he called up Anne, 



288 


THE GREEN SCARF 


asking her to join him in his belated dinner down¬ 
town. Then, pending her arrival, he used the tele¬ 
phone to put the finishing touches on his almost 
completed campaign. 

When she joined him his keen eye immediately 
understood that she had come straight from the of¬ 
fice, and it was his tactful suggestion that they dine 
in some quiet place rather than in the noise, per¬ 
fume, and low neck of the hotel. 

“ There’s only one place in Chicago,” he declared, 
“ where they serve good food gently. Shall we see 
what Hieronymus can do for us at the Tip Top? ” 

She smiled at his youthfulness. “ I like it there,, 
too.” 

“I shall reward myself for this hasty trip,” he 
said when they were seated in a corner where the 
music drifted to them pleasantly subdued, “with 
oysters baked in their shells, peacefully reposing in 
hot salt — a true poem! And you, Miss Manard?” 

While she studied the menu he studied her, chat¬ 
ting easily the while. “ The only place in America,” 
he said when the waiter had gone, “ where one can 
have music with one’s meals — and enjoy both.” 

“ They seem to find good music popular here,” she 
agreed. “It’s a relief.” 

“Tell me,” he shot at her suddenly, “what sort 
of a person is this Mr. Burroughs?” 

She was taken aback, and showed it. Her hesi- 



THE GREEN SCARF 


289 


tancy and the slight flush of color which tinged her 
cheeks were not lost on the shrewd old eyes watch¬ 
ing her. 

“Why — he’s a — a very able man.” 

“A worshiper of ‘ scientific management/ isn’t 
he? ” 

“ Yes, I suppose you’d call him that.” 

“Hum! I know the type. They — ah — men¬ 
tally, I have always catalogued this steak Imperial, 
sauce piquante, in my private gallery of old mas¬ 
ters. The chef merits a cordon bleu!” 

Before she could respond to this characteristically 
abrupt change of subject he had reverted to Mr. 
Burroughs. “I’ve seen something of his kind. 
They don’t realize that there’s such a thing as being 
too logical. Even in my business-” 

“What is your business, Mr. Cass?” 

His eyelids fluttered. “Oh, I work in a bank. 
Been there all my life. Old and trusted employee.” 
The way he said it made her think of the impassive 
men behind the cages to whom she said “good 
morning ” and “ thank you ” once or twice a month 
— and never thought of otherwise. Automata, 
stamping pass books, and moving little piles of 
money about. She decided that Mr. Cass must be 
such a one, perhaps a veteran assistant cashier, 
which was precisely what he wished her to decide. 

For a time he talked upon indifferent topics, grad- 




290 


THE GREEN SCARF 


ually penetrating her reserve, and, before she real¬ 
ized it, leading her on to tell considerably more 
about herself than would have been her preference. 
By the time the coffee was served he had seen very 
deeply into the soul of Anne Manard. What he 
saw made him express profound satisfaction — with 
his cigar. 

He leaned back, studying her through the veil of 
smoke which drifted up from his nostrils. “Tell 
me,” he said suddenly, “do you think Tom will be 
a successful man?” 

“What do you mean by success?” she countered. 

“That’s a fair question,” he agreed. “And im¬ 
portant. Well, let’s leave money out of it.” 

“ Then he’s successful now,” she answered slowly. 

“ Umph! ” Mr. Cass was impassive. “ Senti¬ 
mentally, you mean ? ” 

“ You said you’d leave money out of it.” 

“Yes. But if money isn’t enough, neither is sen¬ 
timent. There are good men in the poorhouse — 
and avarice sometimes leads to the penitentiary. 
Let me ask you this: Could the boy’s ideas be made 
to square with the running of a business that stayed 
out of the hands of the receiver?” 

She pondered the question. Then she shook her 
head. “I’m sorry,” she said sadly. “I haven’t the 
least idea.” 

“The only way to find out would be to try, eh?” 



THE GREEN SCARF 


291 


“ I suppose it would.” 

“Umph!” Mr. Cass was silent for a moment, 
seemingly intent on nothing but his cigar. Then he 
came out with one of his abrupt questions: “Aside 
from his nonsense, the boy’s got brains, don’t you 
think?” 

“Indeed, yes — a great deal.” 

“This jolt may turn out a good thing for him, 
eh? Knock some of the sentiment out of him — 
what d’you say?” 

She shook her head. “Nothing will knock that 
out of him,” she said earnestly. “That is, I hope 
nothing will. It’s the finest thing he has.” 

“It hasn’t done much for him yet, has it?” he 
snapped gruffly. “Made him nearly lose his life. 
And thrown him out of a good job.” 

“ No,” she answered dreamily. “ Perhaps not. 
But aren’t there bigger things than jobs— r life 
even ? ” 

He smiled. “You’re a bit of a sentimentalist 
yourself, aren’t you ? ” 

A far-away look came into her eyes. “If I am, 
Tommy had a good deal to do with it. Did — did 
he ever tell you about the — the green scarf?” 

Mr. Cass chuckled dryly. “ No. He’s never con¬ 
fided much in me about his wearing apparel.” 

“ He hasn’t got it yet,” she said seriously. “ But 
he thinks he sees it.” Observing the old man’s 



292 


THE GREEN SCARF 


frank amazement, she laughed. " Maybe you’ll 
think it’s funny, but it’s very vital to him.” In a 
few words, but words redolent with sympathy and 
understanding, she sketched the quaint conceit 
which had run through the warp and woof of Tom¬ 
my’s life like a bright-colored thread. Though she 
was scarcely aware of it, the fancy had come to 
mean almost as much to her, and she spoke with 
quiet eloquence. 

When she had finished, the old man laid down his 
cigar. "I’m much too old to scoff at ideals, how¬ 
ever fanciful,” he said soberly. " You were afraid 
I’d laugh, weren’t you? What a fool I’d be if I 
did!” 

The realization of her earnestness made her suffer 
a little embarrassment. "It — it sounds rather 
silly, telling it. I-” 

He rose. " I have tickets for Maude Adams,” he 
said, as if he had not heard her. "Shall we go 
now ? ” 

Tommy was amazed, when he answered a tele¬ 
phone call next morning, to hear his father’s voice. 

"Wh-what the dickens are y-you doing here?” 
he stuttered. 

"Waiting for you to come downtown and join 
me,” was the unilluminating reply. "I’m at the 
University Club.” 



THE GREEN SCARF 


293 


The click at the other end of the wire was char¬ 
acteristically abrupt. Tommy scratched his head. 
It was a strange coincidence — or maybe it wasn’t 
a coincidence- 

He went downtown with anything but pleasurable 
anticipations. If his father did not already know 
the truth, he meant to tell him quite frankly. It was 
certain to be a dismal interview at best, and the 
briefer and the more explicit, the fewer would be 
the recriminations. Only — the thought made him 
dig his knuckles into his cheek — there would be no 
recriminations. That was not his father’s way. 
A few questions, a thump on the shoulder, and then 
crisply concrete discussion of the future. But hu¬ 
miliation and disappointment would be the more 
painful for their absence of expression. 

He found his father in the club library, browsing 
among the memoirs in octavo, half leather, which 
were his passion. 

He held Tommy off at arms’ length, readjusting 
his glasses. “Your color’s bad,” he said sternly. 
“Aren’t getting enough exercise, are you?” 

Tommy refused to delay the unpleasant words 
which must come sooner or later. He led the way 
to a chair, secluded behind a bookcase in the corner, 
and drew up another beside it. 

“ I suppose you know what’s happened to me r ” 
he began steadily. 




2 94 


THE GREEN SCARF 


Mr. Cass elevated his eyebrows. “ What's hap¬ 
pened ? ” 

“ I’ve been fired.” 

“ Oh — that! Yes, I’ve heard.” 

Tommy rather expected that answer. Yet he was 
none the less surprised. 

“You have? Who from?” 

A quizzical smile twinkled behind Mr. Cass’ 
glasses. “Shall we say a little bird, and let it go 
at that?” 

“No. I’d like to know.” 

“ It’s of no importance, son.” 

“But, father! I think I-” 

“Any plans for the future ? ” 

Tommy stared at the floor. “I can get a job 
— somewhere,” he muttered lugubriously. 

“Like the paint business?” 

“Yes —a lot.” 

“Think you know it pretty well?” 

“ In some ways, yes.” 

Mr. Cass leaned back, and brought the tips of his 
fingers together. “Has Mr. Burroughs’ decision to 
dispense with your services — er — taught you any¬ 
thing?” 

Tommy nodded vehemently. “ Safety first. I’ll 
mind my own business after this.” 

Whether Mr. Cass approved that sentiment or 
not was not apparent. “I believe, in your very 



THE GREEN SCARF 


295 


elaborate education at college, you included the 
study of philosophy?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“ Did you bring away from that study any great 
lesson ? ” 

“N-no, sir.” 

“ I think you are mistaken. I am quite sure of it. 
You learned, didn’t you, of a man’s moral obliga¬ 
tion to make his own character the standard for the 
rest of the world?” 

“Y-yes, sir, perhaps I did,” said Tommy, mani¬ 
festly not understanding. 

“If what you do may be done by the rest of 
mankind to advantage, then your conduct is good. 
On the other hand — you get the thought, don’t 
you ? ” 

“Yes, but-” 

“Let’s look at this thing. Would safety first — 
and minding your own business exclusively — how 
would that be for a standard of universal conduct? 
Things would stop moving on the old planet, 
wouldn’t they ? ” 

Tommy found his father rather difficult to fol¬ 
low. “I — I suppose they would,” he said slowly. 
Then the truth flashed upon him. “You mean — 
a chap ought to follow out his own ideas, even if 


“I mean,” said Mr. Cass, his words clipped off 





296 


THE GREEN SCARF 


crisply, “that safety first is the last recourse of 
cowards. Cain’s reply to the Lord has never ap¬ 
pealed to me as a particularly edifying sentiment.” 

Tommy’s soul suddenly took fire. “Everybody’s 
got to mind everybody else’s business, hasn’t he?” 
he cried. “That’s what civilization means.” 

“ Yes,” answered Mr. Cass dryly. “ It’s precisely 
that. But if you get another job and try to civilize 
it, aren’t you likely to meet the same unhappy end?” 

Tommy’s face fell. “I suppose so,” he muttered, 
crestfallen. “ I seem to be up against it, don’t I ? ” 

Mr. Cass leaned forward and put his hand on 
his son’s knee. “Tell me, boy, did Burroughs do 
the right thing in putting you out ? ” 

Tommy was apathetic. “Why not? I was med¬ 
dling in things that didn’t concern me.” 

“Try to be impersonal, son. Would you have 
done it if you’d been in his place?” 

“Why, I guess so,” began Tommy reflectively. 
Then he halted, and his jaw set. “I’ll be hanged if 
I would! ” he burst out. “ His sense will cost him 
more in the end than my nonsense ever would. I 
know it will!” 

Mr. Cass leaned back, and a faint smile played 
about his lips. “That’s all I wanted to know,” he 
said softly. 

“You — you’re disappointed?” questioned Tom¬ 
my, hesitating. 



THE GREEN SCARF 


297 


“ No,” replied his father quietly. “As long as 
you think you’re right — and act accordingly — 
I shall never be disappointed.” 

Tommy sighed. The words themselves were not 
particularly significant. But they made him feel 
singularly buoyant none the less, as if a pressing 
load had been taken off his shoulders. “ I’m awfully 
g-glad! ” he stammered. 

Mr. Cass affected not to hear him. “ It’ll be just 
as hard holding your next job.” 

“ I know it.” 

“Holding to one’s ideals is always hard.” 

“So I’m beginning to see,” answered Tommy, 
grinning. 

“But self-respect’s worth more than anything it 
costs to keep it, isn’t it?” 

Tommy nodded. “It certainly is,” he breathed 
fervently. It was quite marvelous how clearly his 
father seemed to understand things which, until 
this moment, he had scarcely understood himself. 

Mr. Cass, shifted suddenly in his chair. “ How’d 
you like to be boss — yourself?” 

Tommy’s jaw dropped. “I — I don’t get you.” 

“ You might learn to sympathize with Burroughs. 
There’s a case for him, too, you know.” 

“Yes, of course.” 

“ I’ve always given you plenty of money, haven’t 
I, son?” 



298 


THE GREEN SCARF 


“ Indeed, yes.” 

“But not too much?” There was a curiously 
anxious note in Mr. Cass’ voice. 

“Why, no, sir. I — I don’t think so.” 

“Some day — any day — you’ll be a rich man, 
Tom. You’re not going to just spend it, are you ? ” 

Tommy moistened his lips. He wondered what 
all this was leading to. He knew that his father, 
for all his abrupt turns of thought, never spoke with¬ 
out definite purpose. 

Mr. Cass continued rather pensively, as if he w T ere 
troubled with doubts; vague, quite inexpressible 
doubts — but painful: “Money isn’t what most 
people think it is, son. It’s a weapon, a tool, a 
means to ends. One has to do something with it. 
What that something is may be very bad — or very 
good. Being rich is holding other people’s — many, 
many, thousands of people’s — happiness in trust. 
The world understands that better now than it used 
to. It won’t be long before a man can’t talk of 
owning anything.” 

“Yes, sir,” said Tommy respectfully. It was 
astonishing to have his father talk like this to him. 

“ It won’t be enough to say that money earns so 
much. The question gets louder every day — how 
does it earn it? There’s going to be a great deal 
more to dividends than so much per cent per an¬ 
num. It isn’t going to keep a man in his steward- 



THE GREEN SCARF 


299 


ship that he renders his account in large figures. 
He’s going to have to render it in the sum of human 
happiness.” Mr. Cass paused, smiling quizzically 
at the look of stupefaction on his son’s face. “ Sur¬ 
prise you to hear me talk like this, eh ? ” 

“Why — no — of course not. Only-” 

“Of course it does! Young people are always 
surprised when they find their elders even mod¬ 
erately up to date. You don’t understand us, Tom. 
We grow, too — some of us. When I was young 
money was just — money. I needed it merely to 
live. But I gathered more than I needed, and I used 
more than I gathered. I found out what money 
really was. You think of me, sitting all day at a 
desk in a stuffy bank, seldom stirring out into the 
great, round world. But you’re wrong. I go all 
over the earth with my dollars. Money’s the most 
wonderful magic carpet that ever was. I’m a tre¬ 
mendous explorer. I build railroads on the Kongo. 
I dig coal mines in Manchuria. I set up refrigerator 
plants in the shadow of the Andes. I — why, lad, 
I’m one of the world’s great civilizers! Using my 
dollars and other people’s dollars. Without stir¬ 
ring out of my office. Under my touch and that of 
men like me, whole cities spring up, locomotives 
whistle in the deserts, ships sail the seven seas, and 
people — millions of men and women — have a big¬ 
ger, happier life because of me.” 



300 


THE GREEN SCARF 


‘‘Gosh!” cried Tommy, his eyes glowing. His 
admiration for his father was beyond utterance in 
mere words. But it was plain enough in his ejacu¬ 
lation and the eager wonderment of his face. 

“And yet,” went on the old man, his face soften¬ 
ing, “I’m not a young man. The old ways hold 
me. I go only part way in my stewardship. I build 
and I dig, but out of it all comes only mines and 
railroads and factories — material things — hard, 
cold, meaningless. There’s something I miss, and 
it’s bigger than all the rest — it’s people! That, boy, 
is the next step. That is what I’ve got to hand on 
to you. To you and your generation is the task of 
understanding what really digs the mines and runs 
the factories. At the bottom of all this magic of 
money throughout the earth is the simplest and 
the least understood thing there is — flesh and blood. 
You’ve got to understand it. At least to try. It 
won’t be enough to know that there is bustle and 
smoking chimneys on the China coast. You’ve got 
to know the coolie that holds it all up on his back. 
Do you get my thought ? ” 

“ No, sir,” said Tommy, reluctant, but candid. 
“I’m afraid I don’t.” 

Mr. Cass was not dismayed. “No matter. You 
will. In fact, you have already. More than you 
know. You’ve proved it. I don’t express myself 
well, that’s all. See here-” 




THE GREEN SCARF 


301 


He thrust his hand into an inside pocket of his 
coat, and drew forth a bundle of papers held to¬ 
gether with a rubber band. “ Unless you violently 
object/’ he said, tapping on the package with his 
forefinger, “ I’m going to put you into business for 
yourself. You’re young, to be sure, but there’s 
nothing like responsibility as an educator.” 

“ Put me in business for myself ? ” echoed Tommy 
in bewilderment. “ What on earth-” 

“ I have here,” went on Mr. Cass, unperturbed, 
“ proxies representing the majority of the stock held 
in the Champion Paint and Varnish Company. 
These I have made over to Thomas Elgin Cass, sec¬ 
ond, who, therefore, from this hour forth, controls 
the destinies of the institution aforesaid.” 

Tommy gasped and turned pale. What was the 
meaning of this elaborate joke? He put the ques¬ 
tion bluntly. 

Mr. Cass, quite serious, continued to tap the pack¬ 
age of papers. “ There is no joke about it, son. X 
foresaw, long ago, that you and Burroughs must 
eventually clash. I made a careful investigation. 
I found the stock of the concern surprisingly scat¬ 
tered. For a time I delayed any action. I wished to 
satisfy myself about you. I watched your progress 
carefully. Then, acting through agents, of course, 
I quietly picked up this stock, until I had acquired 
control. If necessary, I shall acquire the rest.” 




302 


THE GREEN SCARF 


“For the love o’ Mike!” mumbled Tommy, star¬ 
ing at his father as if he had gone mad. 

Mr. Cass smiled. “The only nut that was hard 
to crack was a person named Gentles. Ever meet 
him?” 

Tommy nodded. “ Once.” 

“ Greedy,” declared Mr. Cass calmly. “ Gave up 
his safe and sane Champion 7’s to put the money 
into shells for the Russians. He’s counting on 
twenty-five, no doubt. One of the pleasant by¬ 
products of the war, you see. But for the rainbow 
of munitions, Mr. Gentles might not have sold out 
his Champion holdings. However, he did — which 
is all that concerns us.” 

Tommy scarcely heard what his father was say¬ 
ing. He was still struggling to grasp the meaning 
of those crisp documents crackling in his fascinated 
fingers. “I — I don’t understand finance very 
well,” he whispered huskily. “ You mean I — I own 
the Champion Paint Company?” 

“ In effect — yes.” 

“Gee whiz!” Tommy whistled. “Say, tell me 
that all over again, will you?” 

Patiently his father repeated the details by 
which he had acquired control of the company. 
“ I have had some experience — on a little larger 
scale — in matters of this sort.” He chuckled 
reminiscently. 



THE GREEN SCARF 


303 


“You mean — I — I — I’m the whole thing!” 

“ If you want to use that title, I suppose you can.” 

“But, good Lord, what on earth will I do with 
it?” 

Mr. Cass smiled blandly. “That is something 
you will have to determine for yourself.” 

Tommy was aghast. “Gosh, I can’t!” he cried 
in panic. 

His father shrugged his shoulders. “I’ll advise, 
of course, as far as I can, but you’ll have to paddle 
your own canoe.” 

“I tell you I can’t!” wailed Tommy. “It’s ri¬ 
diculous. Why-” His face suddenly changed, 

the deep lines of consternation transformed into a 
curiously uncertain resolution, as if ideas were en¬ 
tering his head, but ideas which he was hardly ready 
to voice. “Do you really mean that — about my 
paddling the boat — alone?” he asked hesitantly. 
The resemblance between father and son was quite 
remarkable as they looked at each other. “Alone ? ” 
he repeated more firmly. 

Mr. Cass nodded. “Absolutely.” 

“ Suppose I wreck the business ? ” 

“Suppose you wreck your life? I can’t help or 
hinder.” 

Tommy was thoughtful. “I — I suppose it is up 
to me,” he said slowly. 

His father’s hand stole out and found his. The 




3°4 


THE GREEN SCARF 


old man’s voice shook a trifle. “Yes, lad. It’s up 
to you — completely. But there are more eyes than 
mine upon you. Remember that. Be honest with 
yourself — and them.” 

“It — it’s up to me,” repeated Tommy to himself. 

The afternoon dragged intolerably. He was 
bursting to tell Anne the dazzling news. But he 
preferred to wait until he could talk to her secure 
against the inevitable interruptions of the office. 

He suggested dinner together. But she had an 
engagement. So he had to content himself with the 
walk home together. 

When they were at last alone, he found himself 
at a loss as to just how to begin. The announce¬ 
ment he had to make was so stupendous that it 
seemed to demand preliminaries, a gradual leading 
up to the ultimate shock. But he was not a diplo¬ 
mat. They walked for blocks, chatting nervously 
on all manner of subjects which did not interest 
him in the least, the while he probed his mind for 
an opening. Then at length, when he was begin¬ 
ning to show his desperation and puzzle her, he 
plunged abruptly into the story. 

“My father’s gotten control of the company—- 
and given it to me!” he began breathlessly. 

“What company?” she asked prosaically, not at 
all comprehending. 



THE GREEN SCARF 


3 Q 5 


“ Champion! Can you beat it ? ” 

She halted, staring at him. “Are you joking ?” 

“Hope to die—no!” 

“ Tommy!” 

“ It’s a fact! ” 

“Your father? Why—how could he? He—• 
he told me he worked in a bank. He--” 

“He does. He’s president of one.” He caught 
her dumfounded expression, and, strange to say, 
understood it. “ He’s in oil, too, and ore.” 

“Then he’s not — he’s a wealthy man.” 

Tommy almost blushed. “Well, yes. I guess 
you’d call him that,” he admitted apologetically. 

She bit her lip. “ I had no idea. I thought-” 

“ It’s my fault,” he assured her. “ I knew what 
you thought, and I let you keep on thinking it.” 
Her silence troubled him. “You aren’t angry?” 

She came out of her reverie with a start. 
“Angry ? Oh, no, indeed! Why should I be ? But 
why didn’t you tell me the truth ? ” 

“Why, I didn’t think it was anything to talk 
about, one way or the other,” he answered truth¬ 
fully enough. 

“I suppose not,” she murmured. Then a sud¬ 
den animation seized her. “Well, Aladdin, now 
that the lamp’s been rubbed for you, what are you 
going to do with your dream castle?” 

“Blessed if I know!” he replied, hanging his 





306 


THE GREEN SCARF 


head. “It’s a thundering pickle to get in, don’t 
you think?” 

“ It’s a wonderful opportunity,” she said soberly. 

The steely glint of determination came back into 
his eyes. “ It certainly is. I’ve got a big chance. 
And the first job on my hands is to settle that strike. 
Then I’ll — what’s the matter, Anne? You aren’t 
listening.” 

She started nervously. “Why, of course I am. 
I-” 

“ No, you weren’t.” His voice was accusing and 
hurt. 

“Why, Tommy! What a thing to say! I——” 

“You weren’t,” he repeated. “Aren’t you—you 
— glad?” 

She essayed a smile, not very successfully. “ How 
can I tell? You may be planning to give me my 
walking papers! ” 

“That’s likely, isn’t it?” he snapped grimly. 

“ Tell me some more about your plans,” she pur¬ 
sued. “You don’t have to look so solemn yet, do 
you?” 

He shook his head gloomily. “I haven’t any 
plans.” 

“ Why, Tommy, you’re full of them. You know 
you are!” 

He refused to be drawn out. All the enthusiasm 
with which he had hurried to tell her the great news 






THE GREEN SCARF 


3°7 


seemed to have evaporated. It was doubtful if it 
could be restored. He lacked the heart even to try. 
A chill shadow had fallen between them, keeping 
them apart none the less effectually for its utter im¬ 
palpability. A scowl darkened his forehead, and 
his footsteps echoed hers in morose silence. 

“What’s the matter, Tommy?” she asked tim¬ 
idly when they were near the end of their journey. 

“ I wish I knew! ” he growled, kicking at a stone 
by the sidewalk. “You — you’re different some¬ 
how.” 

“Of course I’m not!” 

“Oh, yes, you are!” he muttered wearily. “I 
don’t know what it is, but you are.” 

At her doorstep she held out her hand. “I 
haven’t congratulated you, have I ? ” she said rather 
stiffly. “I — I want to wish you all success.” 

He held her hand fast. “ Oh, Anne,” he pleaded 
brokenly, “you’re not going to be different just 
because I’m not the ten-a-week chap you thought 
I was? If you are, I’ll go make dad disinherit me. 
Please! I’m just the same. You act as if you — 
you hated me.” 

Her eyes, gleaming in the dusk like two coals, 
looked into his for an instant. “ Hate you, Tommy ? 
I-” 

Before he could answer, she had torn her hand 
from his grasp and disappeared in the darkness of 



308 


THE GREEN SCARF 


the vestibule. He started instinctively to follow, 
but the slam of the door told him that it was use¬ 
less. 

He walked away sorrowfully. What could he 
have said or done to affect her like this? He had 
fancied for a moment that she was displeased with 
him for the deception he had practiced upon her. 
But surely it could not be that. She could not be 
angry over anything so harmless. 

It was truly an auspicious beginning to his over¬ 
lordship, he thought bitterly. Kings were always 
lonely. 

He had said that he would prefer disinheritance 
itself to any loss of her sympathy, to anything which 
carried the penalty of her chill distance. And that 
was true quite literally. 

He was very puzzled and unhappy. 



CHAPTER XVI 


T OMMY was young enough to derive consid¬ 
erable pleasure from the anticipation of his 
telling Mr. Burroughs what had happened. But 
when, next morning, he sat in the handsome office 
which had been the scene of so many climacterics 
in his life, across the shining mahogany from the 
gray-eyed little man who had influenced him so pro¬ 
foundly, his satisfaction seeped away, like sand 
from a flowerpot. He told his story almost apolo¬ 
getically. So far from enjoying the situation, he 
was exceedingly uncomfortable. 

Mr. Burroughs, rather to his surprise, remained 
quite silent after he had finished, chewing an un¬ 
lighted cigar. 

“The cards appear to be turned,” he said after 
a little in a perfectly steady voice. “I suppose 
your next move will be to ask my resignation.” 
The ghost of a smile wavering about his lips slowly 
deepened. If he was moved, as most assuredly he 
should have been, he was too well schooled by long 
habit to show it. 

Tommy actually blushed. “ Gee, Mr. Burroughs 
— I’m not that much of a fool! ” 


3°9 


3io 


THE GREEN SCARF 


“You’re the boss now, I take it.” 

“ Maybe so. But if somebody gave you a yacht 
you wouldn’t immediately make the captain walk 
the plank, would you?” 

The reply was accompanied by a whimsical smile. 
“Why not? Particularly if the captain had just 
finished throwing me overboard.” 

Tommy was embarrassed. “The situation hasn’t 
changed at all,” he said earnestly. “I — well, let’s 
say that I’ve just taken Gentles’ place; that’s all. 
Why, you’ve forgotten more about this business 
than I’ll learn in twenty years. You keep on where 
you are — on the bridge — and I — I’ll just putter 
round.” He held out his hand. “Let’s forget — 
shall we? And start over?” 

Burroughs hesitated a moment. Countless 
thoughts, some bitter, some inexpressibly sad, were 
flitting through his soul. As in a mirror, he had 
a glimpse of himself, turning a little gray, spirit¬ 
ually as well as physically — getting hard and dry 
and mechanical. It was impossible to evade the 
contrast with the ruddy-cheeked youth, so eager and 
earnest and honest-eyed, who stood before him. 
Slowly, almost painfully, his hand went out. He 
sighed wearily. Tommy did not know what finality 
of resignation there was in that sigh, how much 
more than a mere confession of defeat it was. The 
keen eyes of youth sometimes see exceedingly little. 



THE GREEN SCARF 


3H 

There was a difficult silence for a moment. Bur¬ 
roughs broke it hesitantly, a trifle defiant. “ You’ll 
want to handle the strike differently, I suppose ?” 

Tommy nodded apologetically. “I — I want to 
get rid of the scabs and the guards.” 

“You’re going to give in, then?” 

“In a way—yes.” 

His lips twisting wryly, Burroughs reached for 
the button at his elbow, but Tommy raised his 
hand. 

“Wait a minute! Before you do anything, I 
think you ought to know what’s in my mind.” 

“Why?” 

Tommy’s eyebrows went up. “You may not 
want to do it when I tell you.” 

“ Does what I want make any difference ? ” The 
bitterness lingering in the words was not lost on 
Tommy. 

He hesitated for an instant. Then, because he 
simply could not think, he plunged blindly on in¬ 
stinct— and did exactly the right thing. 

“We’ve got to settle this right here and now,” 
he declared hotly. “If you’re going to act on a 
master-and-man theory, you can consider yourself 
fired. My dad didn’t give me this chance so I 
could put a cocked hat on and go round spouting 
fool orders. The fact’s this: You’ve got something 
I haven’t, and I’ve got something you haven’t. Now, 



312 


THE GREEN SCARF 


then, we’re going to put the two together and play 
ball, or you’re going to hunt another job.” 

Mr. Burroughs rubbed his chin. “ Yes — go on!” 

“I’m through!” snapped Tommy. “It’s catch 
fish or cut bait. I’ve got more respect for you than 
any man besides my father, but if you’re going to 
stand around and wait for me to give you orders, 
by thunder, I’ll-” 

A slow bewitching smile came over Burroughs’ 
face. “All right. We’re on the same side. What 
next?” 

“You’re excited, Mr. Cass,” said Burroughs 
smoothly. 

“Good Lord!” shouted Tommy, beating his fist 
on the desk. “Cut out that mister stuff! Jee-ru- 
salem! Can’t you get it through your nut that we’re 
on the same side?” 

Like many a reformer of greater experience, 
Tommy was oppressed by the depth of the water 
when called upon actually to swim. He hesitated, 
scratching his head. “I suppose — calling off the 
strike’s the first thing.” 

“Giving in?” 

“Oh, sure,” said Tommy easily, as if the details 
of adjustment were negligible. “ Suit yourself 
about that, though. Getting ’em back’s the main 
thing.” 

“And then?” 




THE GREEN SCARF 


3£3 


Tommy was hesitant again. “Gosh, I don’t 
know!” he admitted frankly. The magnitude of 
his own practical ignorance suddenly appalled him. 
“I — I’ve got a general idea, of course. Democratic 
control and all that. I told you, you remember?” 

Mr. Burroughs nodded. “ I believe our last in¬ 
terview was on that subject largely,” he said, smil¬ 
ing. 

“ I suppose a fellow could get books? Other peo¬ 
ple must have had some idea like this.” 

“ See here, Cass! ” Burroughs’ gaze came down 
to the level, and a queer sparkle was manifest in 
his eyes. “ You may be a bit of a crank. But you’re 
a mighty good sport. Em not — not naturally. But 
I’ll follow your lead until you say quit—and take 
the consequences. Now, then — what’s it to be?” 

Tommy was rather abashed by this statement. It 
brought home to him the enormous change in his 
status and the extent of his responsibility. “That’s 
just the trouble,” he stammered. “I don’t know — 
not exactly. All I want is to get the whole shootin’ 
match into a team and cut out the scrapping. 

“ The unions will fight it, of course,” murmured 
Burroughs thoughtfully. 

Tommy was startled. “The unions? Why, I 
should think they’d be the-” 

“Men like Moran would find themselves jobless 
if you put over this happy-family idea.” 




311 


THE GREEN SCARF 


Tommy grinned. “I can’t say I’d mind seeing 
Moran jobless. And I shouldn’t think even you’d 
mind having a happy family around you.” 

“I shouldn’t. But you haven’t told me how to 
get it.” 

Tommy paced the floor restlessly. “I told you 
I didn’t know. I — I’m about as useful as a bul¬ 
let without a gun. But here’s what I’d say: Get 
the whole force together — department heads, hun- 
kies — everybody from soup to nuts — and lay the 
general proposition out to them. Then divide up the 
place into wards or districts or whatever you want 
to call ’em and elect delegates to a council or senate 
or something like that.” 

“The council, no doubt, to run things?” Bur¬ 
roughs could not resist a temptation to be mildly 
ironic. 

“No,” replied Tommy seriously. “Not right 
away. First they’ve got to work out a—well, you 
might say, a constitution and pick officers. Then 


“To be responsible to the council — or to you?” 
Burroughs’ eyes twinkled. 

“Why, to the council, of course.” 

“ But you own the business.” 

Tommy’s mouth opened. “By George, that’s 
so! ” He was silent for a moment. Then his eager¬ 
ness returned, and he hurried on: “ That’s one of 




THE GREEN SCARF 


315 


the details to be worked out. We’ve got to develop 
your profit-sharing scheme and extend it. In time 
we may have to turn our own stockholdings into the 
pot and divide them up some way.” 

“A detail, of course—a mere trifle.” 

“Sure,” began Tommy enthusiastically. Then 
he realized the other’s sarcasm, and he laughed. 
“ I’m planning everything but the details. But say, 
Burroughs!” he burst out. “This is a whopping 
big thing, you know. How long did it take the old 
Thirteen Colonies to start as an honest-to-goodness 
nation? We can’t work this thing out in a minute. 
It’s going to take a mighty long time.” 

Burroughs followed him to the door. Twice his 
mouth opened as if he would speak, but closed with 
the words unuttered. Then suddenly his hand shot 
out, and he pulled him back roughly into the office. 
“Just a minute, Cass,” he said huskily, his voice 
trembling. “I — I want to say something to you. 
I — I want to tell you why I fired you.” 

“Yes?” said Tommy curiously. 

“ It was partly because I was as nervous as a cat, 
with everything going wrong. And partly because 
I really thought you were a scatter-brained idealist 
who couldn’t make good. But that was incidental. 
The fact was — I was jealous. I — I hated you like 
the very devil. And I hated myself because I did.” 

“But why? Why in the-” 





3i6 


THE GREEN SCARF 


“Perhaps if I tell you the night before I — I 
asked Miss Manard to be my wife. I-” 

“The night before?” echoed Tommy. “Why, 
that was-” 

“It wasn’t the first time,” echoed Burroughs 
drearily. “But it was the last. Oh — one knows. 
And I — I just couldn’t stand having you around. 
There now; they say confession’s good for the soul. 
I — I think I feel better.” 

Tommy stood stupidly, incapable of utterance. 

Burroughs pushed him toward the door. “Get 
out!” he commanded gruffly, with a touch of his 
old manner. “And forget it. It’s out of my sys¬ 
tem now.” 

“You mean you-” 

“I mean I know when I’m licked. You — you’re 
just a kid. But you’re a better man. I — I hope 
you have better luck.” 





CHAPTER XVII 


T OMMY received the news direct from Anne 
herself. That was some solace at least. It 
would have hurt much more to have heard it from 
some one else. 

He first suspected something amiss by the way 
she asked him to come to her office. He followed 
her, all manner of apprehension clutching at his 
heart. Gravely she indicated a chair. Then she 
seated herself at her desk, eying him steadily, her 
chin resting on her hands. 

“ I don’t know whether I ought to tell you this — 
or Mr. Burroughs,” she said. “If you like, I’ll go 
to him first.” 

“How can I tell?” he answered petulantly. 
“Gosh, Anne, you act as if this was a funeral!” 

She smiled wanly. “Hardly that. It’s really 
nothing at all. It’s — it’s — well, it’s merely that 
Champion’ll be needing some one else to — to take 
care of its advertising.” 

His eyes started. “ Wh-what do you mean ? ” 

“I — I’m resigning, Tommy.” 

He repeated the word incredulously. Then he 
burst out: “ Good Lord, what for ? ” 

3 J 7 


3i» 


THE GREEN SCARF 


“Oh — a number of reasons!” 

He was indignant and sarcastic. “ One’ll do.” 

“Well-” She had prepared carefully for 

precisely this question. But actuality found her none 
the less hesitant. It was not particularly easy for 
her to lie at any time; it was excessively difficult to 
lie with Tommy’s troubled eyes upon her. “I — I’m 
tired of business,” she managed to say. “ I’m go¬ 
ing back home.” 

“Then why not make it a vacation?” he de¬ 
manded. “Stay as long as you like.” 

She began to feel her elaborately contrived men¬ 
dacity crumble. It gave her a touch of panic. “ I 
— I couldn’t come back here — ever.” 

His exasperation got the better of him. “ Some¬ 
thing’s gotten into you,” he declared irritably. 
“You might tell me, I think. You’ve been queer 

ever since I- Tell me, is it something I’ve 

done?” 

She shook her head. 

“Then-” He had a sudden flash of intui¬ 

tion, and his clouded face cleared. “Is it Bur¬ 
roughs ? ” 

She looked away. “I — I can’t stay here any 
longer,” she repeated, her voice shaking. “ Th-that’s 
all there is to it! ” 

“Oh, nonsense!” he cried cheerfully. “He 
won’t bother you. Why-” 







THE GREEN SCARF 


319 


Her self-control was dissolving fast. “ Y-you 
don’t understand,” she murmured, her head still 
averted. “You can’t.” 

“Of course I understand,” he declared confi¬ 
dently. “It’s perfectly clear. But you mustn’t be 
silly about it. Why, good grief, if you’re quitting 
because you can’t stand it with old B. around — 
why, I’ll tie a can to him! You mustn’t go. You 
can’t. I’m going to need you too much.” 

She was silent for a moment. Then she lifted 
her eyes to his. “Need me — what for?” 

He scratched his head ruefully. “ Why, because 
I’m starting in on the world’s greatest experiment 
in industrial organization, as dad calls it, and I 
haven’t got brains enough to go it alone. Besides,” 
he added impulsively, “ it wouldn’t be any fun with¬ 
out you.” 

“ What a boy! ” she mused dreamily. “ What a 
very foolish boy! ” 

He went over to her and touched her shoulder 
timidly. “Gee, Anne,” he pleaded, “stick in the 
game! What’ll I do without you to talk to ? Don’t 
you understand? The whole purpose of the thing 
is to make you do something besides laugh at me. 
I — I want to put a line or two on the slate, so 


“And the green scarf?” 

He had one of his flashes of insight. “Maybe 




320 


THE GREEN SCARF 


that’s— just another name for you!” he said un¬ 
steadily. 

She shook her head. “ You mustn’t think that.” 

“Then — maybe it’s something to — to give to 
you? Tell me, Anne, when I find it, and-” 

She rose quickly, putting her two hands up to 
his shoulders. Her eyes, looking into his search- 
ingly, were moist, and her lip quivered. “ Tommy 

— I’m going to tell you the truth. I — I’m not go¬ 
ing away because I’m tired or because of Mr. Bur¬ 
roughs. It’s simply because —because — I don’t 
dare stay.” 

He stared down at her, wondering. “Don’t 
dare?” 

“ Do you remember one of the first talks we had,, 
and I told you why I couldn’t care for you ? ” 

He grinned. “I don’t remember why. I only 
know-” 

“I’ll tell you why—again.” She choked. Faint 
lines of strain about her mouth indicated the reso¬ 
luteness with which she forced herself to go on: 
“ It was because I couldn’t afford to care for you! ” 

“Gosh, I don’t blame you!” exclaimed Tommy 
sympathetically. 

“But you should blame me!” she cried. “If I 
really cared for you, I’d go with you anywhere. I 

— I’d be happy in a cave! ” 

Her head suddenly went up, and she faced him 





THE GREEN SCARF 


321 


once more. Her face was white and drawn, but 
her eyes, though they winked rapidly, were dry. 
“One more penance, Tommy — and I’m done. It’s 
the hardest thing I ever did in my life; no self-re¬ 
specting girl would ever do it, I suppose. But I 
don’t respect myself. So I’ll do it. I’ll tell you the 
truth. I — I laughed at you when I thought you 
were poor — and now I love you. The ghastly joke 
of it is that you’re going to-” 

“ What am I going to do ? ” he queried mechani¬ 
cally, as if repeating a formula. 

“You’re going to think that I-” 

His dazed lethargy slipped from him like a cloak, 
and he had her slim figure crushed in his arms. 
“D’you mean that, Anne?” he cried exultantly. 
“You — you love me?” His voice was filled with 
awe. 

Her head was buried on his shoulder, and her 
voice was muffled. “You can’t possibly believe it 
— but I do — oh, Tommy, I do — I do!” 

“Lift your head!” he commanded. “Now — 
prove it!” 

The door opened for a moment, and closed softly, 
unheeded. 

“ Gee! ” cried Reddie Callaghan, who had opened 
the door, to the first person he encountered. “ Mr. 
Cass an’ Miss Manard is kissin’ to beat th’ band! ” 

The person to whom he delivered the tidings 




3£2 


THE GREEN SCARF 


chanced to be Miss Gallery, who possessed more per¬ 
spicacity than she was commonly credited with. 
“That,” she said sternly, pausing for an instant in 
her competent typewriting, “was to have been ex¬ 
pected.” 

Tommy and Anne stood by the window, watching 
the sun’s hot blushes deepen as it sank over the 
purpling factories to the west. The workers had 
all gone, the crash of the machines was still, and 
the place was singularly peaceful. The twilight 
seemed to blot out even the dirt and disorder. 

“I don’t suppose Mecca’s much like this,” said 
Tommy, chuckling softly. “But-” 

“You think you’ve found the green scarf here?” 

Something in her tone halted his ready answer, 
and he grew thoughtful. “I — I guess not,” he 
said presently. “I’ve just — touched the edge. This 
is a — a suburb of Mecca! ” 

She squeezed his arm. “ It’s more than that, dear 
heart. Perhaps — have you ever thought of it that 
way—Mecca’s always just over the hill?” 

He nodded eagerly. “And the scarf like the hay 
tied in front of a donkey’s nose!” 

She laughed. “That’s hardly poetic, Tommy, 
but maybe it’s true.” 

He took her in his arms and kissed her. “And 
you were going to resign!” 


i 




THE GREEN SCARF 


323 


“I still am,” she whispered. “I— I’ve got an¬ 
other job! ” 

“Might I ask what it is?” 

“ Taking care of the strangest, dearest, youngest 
boy in all the world! ” she cried, her eyes starry. 

He added one to the score. “I haven’t got the 
scarf — not yet — but I’ve got something better.” 

“You’ve burdened yourself with a companion,” 
she answered slowly. “But perhaps two can get 
to Mecca better than one.” 

“ I am sure of it,” said Tommy. “And your eye 
for color being better than mine, you will discern 
the green scarf first.” 

“ But you shall wear it, Tommy,” promised Anne, 
snuggling in his arms. 






















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